


A Gift Unasked For

by andraste_oz (vanessarama)



Category: Merlin (BBC)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-02
Updated: 2010-12-02
Packaged: 2017-10-13 11:47:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 27,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/136999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanessarama/pseuds/andraste_oz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written in response to Written in response to <a href="http://community.livejournal.com/kinkme_merlin/9322.html?thread=5719402#t5719402">this prompt</a> at the Merlin kinkmeme: "What if Merlin did leave with Freya in ep.9? What will happen to Arthur? Will he miss Merlin? Will he move on with his life as nothing happen? Will he look for Merlin?<br/>What will happen to Merlin and Freya? Will Merlin regret his decision? Will Freya be alright? What will happen to Merlin and Arthur? Will they finally realize their love for each other?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Gift Unasked For

She'd intended to get out before he comes for her, to be far away before she can change; but he comes back just as she's slipping up the steps, babbling something about a book and someone called Gaius, his face a complex overlapping of fear and hope and desperation. Freya pulls away, but he seizes her hands and says, "It's all right, Freya. Everything's going to be all right."

"It's not all right, Merlin. You might think that you know but you don't."

"No, I do know, now. I know what you are. I know that it was you, in the town."

She stares at him, horrified, but his eyes are still clear and unguarded.

"You can't know. How can you know and still look at me?"

He holds her hands in his and says, "You couldn't help it, not before. But I have magic. I can help you," so earnestly that she almost believes it.

In her unfamiliar finery, Merlin leads her through shadowed archways and down dark passages. They slip through narrow alleyways in the town and take a route so circuitous that Freya knows she could never have worked it out on her own. It's late afternoon; the shadows are long and there's plenty of activity. Nobody pays them much attention. She supposes Merlin is a familiar face and that everyone assumes he's going about his business. She keeps her head down, hiding her face demurely behind her fall of hair. Merlin tried to help her smooth it out, but she's certain that the tangles show if anyone looks closely.

Merlin has organised blankets, food, even horses. Freya doesn't want to think of the crimes he has committed for her. The gown he has stolen must alone be worth more than everything he owns.

As she settles in the saddle, he puts a hand on hers and asks, "Can you tell, when it's going to happen?"

"It won't be until midnight."

Merlin nods and mounts his own horse. He turns, mouth tremulous and eyes bright and says, "Well, here we go."

They ride hard and fast. Merlin is a better rider than Freya, although she tries hard to keep up; she's never been on a horse before, only donkeys and this is very different. The horses don't seem like her and she suspects that they can smell the curse on her. She holds on, follows Merlin, hoping he knows where he's going. He sometimes looks across and shouts words of encouragement; she barely hears them over the drumming of hooves but she smiles back. It's all she can do to hold on.

When it becomes too dark to ride, Merlin calls to her to stop. They're still within Camelot's borders, he believes, although he tells her he can't be sure; he didn't think to bring a map and he's only been this way once before. They're in a valley between two hills, studded with boulders and topped by strange pillars, which look as if rocks have been piled atop one another. "Giants," says Merlin, grinning. He's almost giddy with the rush of escape, his ears and cheeks pink with it. He wants to climb to the top of the hill to check for pursuers, but Freya persuades him that if it's too dark to risk the horses' legs then it's too dangerous to risk his ankles and skull to loose stones or a fall. She huddles in the lee of a boulder beside the fire that Merlin builds; now that she's off the horse she never wants to get on it again. They eat bread and hard cheese and drink water from a skin. Merlin sits crosslegged by the fire, bending right down over a massive book, an ancient and beautiful thing. A tiny globe of blue light floats over his shoulder to see by.

"I need to go," she tells him. "It'll happen, and I can't control it. I need to be far away from you."

"No. No, you can't. Freya, I can help you. This book - it's full of spells. Powerful, deep magic. There's something here that can help. I know there is."

"Well, just in case," she says, trying to smile. "If you don't find it in time."

"But I can help -"

"Merlin, I might kill you."

"You won't. I promise you, you won't. I will not let that happen."

***

Merlin crouches, fumbling at the magic book. He's found a quieting spell for horses, a spell to put a beast to sleep, and spells to remove various curses. Nothing to prevent a transformation from happening. Nothing guaranteed to work. As his fingers scrabble at the pages, his eyes flicking over the words, he berates himself silently. He should have read the book more often and more consistently until he knew what shimmered in its pages as well as he knew the weave of his own blanket. He should have memorised one spell every night. He should have give Freya reason to trust him sooner, or listened more closely to her or taken her away earlier.

He'd wanted to keep her within sight but in the end, he'd had to let her go. She'd implored him to let her run, had promised him that she'd come back and find him. He'd turned his back as she exchanged the fine gown for her old rags, and had tried not to let her see that he was trembling. The little globe of blue had been sent with her, to light her way and stop her falling; he hopes that it will stay with her and guide her back to him. Or, failing that, light his way to her.

He whispers the words of the three spells he's decided to try tonight, repeats them to himself again and again until they slide over his tongue as easily as water. He gets to his feet, uneasy without the guidance of the blue globe; but there's a moon, and enough light to see by.

Some distance ahead of him, he can hear the strange inhuman cries as Freya turns into something unthinkable.

***

Freya rarely remembers what actually happens during her transformations. Her last memory is usually of her own cries from the pain as her limbs engorge; she's always amazed to wake with her skin pale and smooth and her legs in a graceful curve. Her knowledge of what she does while transformed comes to her only in flashes of sound and colour, mostly screaming, mostly red. She could piece it together from what she sees and hears when she comes back to herself, but she's also become adept at avoiding anyone who can tell her what she's done. She doesn't know whether she kills every time she changes, or most times, or just now and again. When she manages to stay far away from people, she can persuade herself that she hasn't hurt anybody.

She wakes on stony ground, whole and unblemished. The air is cool and bruise-dark. She can't bear the idea of coming back to herself to find Merlin's bloodied body nearby; but as she moves she realises that a blanket has been draped over her during the night, and her old ragged dress has been folded and tucked under her head. When she sits up, hugging her blanket around herself, she sees Merlin curled up several arms-lengths away. There's a smudge on his cheek, but when she looks closely she can see that it's dirt, not blood. He doesn't look hurt and she can see the slight movements made by his breathing. Her heartbeat begins to slow and her breathing to steady. He looks so young, lips slightly parted and hair a mess.

She should never have let him persuade her to go. She should have run away earlier. She should have made him understand what she really is.

As dawn bleeds into day, she dresses herself quietly, wraps the blanket about her shoulders like a cloak, tries to get her bearings. She thinks she can see one of the stone-topped hills not far away. If she can get to the horses, she can take one and be far away before Merlin wakes; he can to go back to the life where he can still find joy in making flames dance and creating roses.

When she looks to check he's still sleeping, he's awake and watching her. He smiles, his eyes still sleepy.

She has to ask.

"Did I hurt you?"

He looks surprised and slightly offended.

"You wouldn't hurt me."

"Merlin, I can't control it. If you're near me when it happens, if there's nobody else, I will kill you."

"Then why didn't you kill me last night?" He's grinning, far too cocky, and she suddenly wants to fly at him, to shake him and scream and make him see how dangerous it is for him to be with her.

He must see the look on her face, because his own face falls a little before he says carefully "I tried a few spells last night. I think I'm getting closer."

"Closer to what?"

"To the right one. The spell that'll stop you from changing."

"Nothing can stop me from changing. It's a curse. Only the one who cursed me can lift it."

"But that's not true. There are spells to lift curses. I'll find the right one."

"Merlin -"

"Last night I put you to sleep, when you changed."

"Put me to sleep?"

"Yes! That's why you didn't hurt me. You see, I can help!"

He's so pleased with himself, his face bright with triumph. She envies him.

***

***

They ride north, through miles of ditch-bordered fields interspersed with dense woods. By the fourth day they've settled into a rhythm; start early and travel during daylight, stop at dusk and rest by the fire. They travel just off the roads, so as to avoid other travellers because Merlin wants to limit the number of people who see them. They pass through several villages, but don't stop despite the alert glances and calls of greeting. Merlin always responds cheerfully, all the more so when they're followed by bright-eyed, curious children with bare feet and tangled hair, but Freya keeps her eyes ahead of her. She's conscious that the gown Merlin provided for her is too fine and out of place with his own attire. They agree that if questioned they'll say that he's her servant, but Freya worries that they look too much as if they've stolen away from some grand household with gowns and horses and probably half the plate. The fine velvet becomes shabby quickly, the pile worn down in patches from the pressure of riding, and they look even more like runaway servants.

There is surprisingly little conversation between them. They don't talk while riding, and they're weary at night. Freya is unused to casual speech, after so long without family and friends, and she knows that words have power and cannot be trusted. Merlin is less guarded and will chatter away as they eat; she thinks he's trying to cheer her with his talk of the home they will make and the spells he's learning. His words float about her, insubstantial and beautiful, like clouds or rainbows and lasting just as long.

Each dusk, or as soon before it as they find a good place, they make camp. Merlin grooms the horses while Freya sets out their meagre bread and hard cheese, along with whatever they find along the way. Merlin pores over the book, his brow furrowed in concentration, occasionally murmuring something under his breath. The little blue globe comes out only when they're far enough from any settlements to be seen; Merlin waits till dark to check for any lights in the distance. Freya sits carefully apart from him, watching his lips move or gazing at the fire. After the first night, he's persuaded her that he knows enough magic to keep her from causing him harm, so while she still moves far from the fire, she stays within sight. He always hands her a blanket and says, "Well. I'll be over here. Just in case. If you need me."

He doesn't try to touch her, except with gentle kisses or the brush of a hand. She's not used to such consideration. Before they left, she'd been too sick and weary of herself and her soul to care much about what Merlin might expect of her in return for all he's done, but she's sure he must want something. Even amongst the Druids there was a price to be paid, and it would not be the first time she's traded certain favours for food, help or protection. If he asks for anything, by word or touch or gesture, she's willing to give it; but Merlin never asks.

When she realises that he's giving her time and space and gentleness because he thinks her as naive and untouched as himself, she doesn't know how to respond. It's yet another thing for which she must be grateful. And yet it would be easier in a way, if there were clearly demarcated lines, a proper exchange, each understanding what was expected of them.

She is too used up by her curse. She's poured out all her tenderness a long time ago. It's been years since anyone touched her with kindness and she doesn't know how to respond. She lets him assume that she's shy, fragile and innocent. All of them are somehow true, just not in the ways he thinks they are.

Merlin being late is nothing unusual. In fact, Arthur sees it as the normal way of things by now. Merlin being completely absent, however, is something rare.

The maid he sends to inquire tells him Gaius says Merlin would not be able to attend him today. Arthur assumes some mild illness. If it were anything important, Gaius would send word. It's a gruelling day, not least because the search for the beast that has preyed on Camelot for the past several nights must continue, even though there are no fresh deaths this morning. There are several minor issues to deal with, not the least of which is the theft of two palfreys from the royal stables. If not for the fact that saddles and other gear are missing as well, Arthur might wonder whether the beast had switched from human to horseflesh.

On the second morning, Gaius himself is at Arthur's door to tell him that Merlin has been called away urgently. Gaius hopes he will be back soon. Arthur gives Gaius a glare, hoping to extract more information, but Gaius has known him all his life and is used to the glares by now. After extracting a promise that he'll be kept up to date with any news, Arthur has another servant assigned to him temporarily and distracts himself by riding out after the beast, which hasn't struck since the day before Merlin left. The search is futile, and none of the surrounding villages has any deaths or unusual occurrences to report. Arthur spends the evening drinking morosely by the fire. It's not fun or relaxing, though, without Merlin there fussing about the chambers and stealing half the wine.

On the sixth day of Merlin's absence from the castle, Arthur takes himself down to Gaius' chambers, telling himself that he really just needs to get his stiff shoulder attended to. The physician's chamber is empty. Arthur strides across the floor and up the few steps to Merlin's little room. When he pushes open the door, he sees Gaius sitting on Merlin's bed, twisting a piece of blue fabric in his hands. He looks up at Arthur and there is such guilt and hurt in his face that Arthur almost falls back a step. Instead he closes the door and comes to sit on the bed beside Gaius.

"Gaius, where's Merlin really? What is it you're not telling me?"

Gaius looks up, his face sunken and dry.

"Sire, if I am to tell you what troubles me it means that I must betray a confidence. I would not do so lightly."

"Of course not," says Arthur impatiently. "But there's clearly something going on. I need to know it. Is it his mother?"

"No, sire. Merlin has told me nothing. This is why I am worried; I have never known Merlin to do anything like this without consulting me first. And I believe that he has not left Camelot alone. There was - a young woman. A girl."

"A girl?" Arthur's head rears back in surprise. "When did that happen? He never told me."

"He had known her but a few days."

Arthur snorts. "Well, we won't have to wait too long then. We'll see him come back within a week, tail between his legs, once she finds out what an idiot he is." He stops when he sees that Gaius' face is even more distressed. "What is it? Oh Gaius, don't tell me he's got her into trouble. Of all the -"

"No, sire, I do not believe that to be the problem, but -" Gaius hesitates - "I fear that what I have to say will make you very angry. I beg you not to be rash. I tell you this now only because I fear for Merlin's safety."

"His safety?"

"The young woman whom I believe is the source of Merlin's absence was in fear of her life. She was being pursued. I believe that Merlin has helped her escape her pursuers and continues to guard her, and I fear that this course has put his life in danger."

"Guard her? Merlin?" Arthur tries to put the ridiculousness of the notion aside. Of course Merlin would try to guard her. Merlin's heart is soft as butter. But surely even Merlin knows his own limits.

"Gaius, why didn't he come to me? If this girl was in danger from brigands or bandits, I would have offered her my protection. As a citizen of Camelot she deserves no less."

"She was not a citizen of Camelot. In fact, she had been brought here against her will."

"I don't understand. If Merlin came across a girl in distress, he must have known that I would have granted her sanctuary. He must have known that I would never let harm come to - to someone he cared for."

"I believe that he dared not tell because there is more to this girl and her story than meets the eye." Gaius' own eyes are avoiding his.

"And? Come on, Gaius, you must know more than that."

"Sire, I am as perplexed as you."

Arthur tries to think about leaving everything he knows, everything he holds dear, and putting himself in danger for the sake of someone he's known only a short time. For Camelot, for family, for the honour of the kingdom, yes; but for a near-stranger?

But then, he himself had done it, risking chasm and beasts and caves, to fetch a flower for Merlin.

"All right, Gaius. I'll make some enquiries. Where did this girl come from, do you know?"

Gaius' face is immobile but his eyes still slide away from Arthur's.

"I do not know, sire. As I said, Merlin has told me nothing."

Arthur puts a hand on the old man's arm and tightens it briefly. There really isn't anything else either of them can say.

***

It's their sixth day out of Camelot, and Freya is tired and sore. They've stopped in a medium-sized town beyond the borders of Camelot which sees enough travellers that hopefully they will not be noticed or remembered. It's market day; Merlin leaves Freya with the horses while he disappears into the crowd in search of bread and cheese. They've used up most of their provisions and they've wasted too much time lately in search of wild fruit and greens by the roadside or in the woods.

When Merlin comes back his eyes are sparkling and he's brimming over with excitement. Freya watches as he comes loping towards her from the marketplace, laden with full bags.

"I got us oats, and peas and even a little bit of ham. And bread and cheese, of course. Oh, and I got something for you as well. Look!"

It's a comb, made from carved bone with two dragon heads arching over its upper curve, pierced with copper for their eyes. She hasn't used a comb since she was at home, with her family. This is much finer than anything she has ever used before. It's too good for her; she is too hurt and too tight to accept it.

"Merlin..."

"Do you like it?"

She forces herself to smile. "It's lovely. But - " She clasps his hand, slips the comb back into it and folds his fingers around it. "You shouldn't go spending money on things like this. We'll need all we have to keep going."

Merlin unclasps his hand and runs a finger over one of the dragons, his smile wistful.

"I'll keep it for you, then," he says.

***

Later that afternoon it begins to rain steadily, the kind of grey steady drizzle that seems light but soaks to the skin in no time. Their progress is slow and plodding. The road, barely a road and more just a beaten track at this point, is muddy; Freya's once-beautiful skirts are splashed with it. Their hair is plastered to their heads and their thighs chafed and pink against the horses' sides. The horses are miserable too.

"Can you stop the rain?" asks Freya.

"No," Merlin answers. He's not sure that he can't, actually, but he's also not sure what might happen if he tries and this isn't the time to be experimenting.

The landscape has been changing gradually as they ride north; there are fewer wooded patches and more hills. They haven't seen any settlements since the market town, and it's almost certainly late afternoon now, although without the sun visible it's difficult to tell. They're riding through a treed cleft between low mountains. Among the trees, the road is less even and the mud turns to puddles. Merlin spies what looks like a track leading around the base of a mountain.

"Perhaps there's some shelter around there," suggests Merlin. "A cave."

What they find is not a cave, however, but a low building, just a huddle of stones under the mountain's clenched bulk. There's no smoke coming from its chimney and no sign of life. Freya waits on horseback while Merlin advances, bangs on the sturdy door and calls out. There is no response. He checks the second door, further away, which proves to lead to the barn area. It's empty, and looks as if it has been for some time.

Merlin opens the door with magic, still cautious, but there is no sign of life. The interior is dark, one tiny window letting in a weak shaft of light. There's a hearth with a hanging pot and the charcoaled remains of a fire, a rough stool on its side, a low table and a straw-stuffed pallet on the hard earth floor. There's an assortment of dust and debris scattered across everything, no doubt blown in through the glassless window.

It's not much, but it's shelter and it will soon be warm. He whispers the fire into life and goes outside.

"It's deserted," he tells Freya, who's pale and listing on her horse. "Looks as if nobody's lived here for a while. You get inside, I've got a fire going." He helps her slide down.

It takes him a little while to get the horses unsaddled and settled in the barn. When he enters the room Freya is sitting on the stool in her old rags, her arms pink where they're stretched towards the fire. Her damp velvet gown is gently steaming where it's draped over the table and she's stuffed a saddlebag into the window space to keep out the cold. She turns her face and smiles, a full and beautiful smile which he's never seen on her before, like a flower seeing the sun.

"You should smile more often," he says, feeling his own face responding in kind.

Freya ducks her head, but behind her hair she's still smiling.

Soon the interior of the cottage is steamy and thick with smoke, but it's warm and they're much drier. Merlin has discovered the rain barrel outside and has set out the cooking pot in the rain to soak off what's probably the remains of the previous inhabitants' last meal. He raises a tiny, gentle breeze to blow the leaves and other debris towards the door, where he kicks it outside along with the corpse of a dead mouse that was under the table. Freya scrapes down the cobwebs and beats the dust off the pallet, which they turn over together. She goes out to scour the pot with leaves and then fills it with water which Merlin heats with magic. They wash off the grime of the road, each facing away from the other in turn, carefully courteous. Later they cook a pottage of dried peas and boiled ham, their first hot meal in days, and wolf it down.

"Try and sleep a little," suggests Merlin. He's pulling the precious book from the bag where it's swaddled tenderly in blankets.

"It'll happen soon."

"I know. You should sleep while you can." He hands her a blanket, smiling, and seats himself on the stool beside the quietening fire, the book on his knee.

It is all so peaceful and homelike that Freya's heart twists like a fish on a line.

***

***

The Bastet's sides heave and shrink; Freya tumbles back into herself, a diminished heap on the muddy ground. Merlin gathers her body up as gently as possible, and carries her into the cottage where he deposits her on the pallet. His knees sag and he drops down beside her, just for a moment, just to catch his breath. He's exhausted.

Perhaps now that they've stopped running, at least for a little while, he can get some proper sleep.

The nights aren't getting easier, even though he's mastered the routine. It's important to begin uttering the words of the spell as Freya begins to scream; he chants on steadily even as she cries out in agony, through the red mist over his eyes and the tears running down his face. Every scream and sob and moan sinks into his skin until he feels his very bones are sodden with her pain.

Merlin must keep chanting until the beast's head droops and she collapses, and then he has to sit by the motionless heap of fur and chant again if it shows signs of movement. It seems to take hours; he doesn't know how long it is. Only when she is herself again can he rest. She sleeps motionlessly, and so deeply that she never wakes, even when he arranges her limbs and strokes back her hair, even the time he'd stumbled and nearly dropped her. Tonight at least she has a softer bed than the damp ground. Perhaps she'll wake more refreshed.

He leans over her until he can feel the feathery brush of her breath on his cheek, fortifying himself with the life he senses thrumming through her, before he gently drapes the blanket and folds it around her shoulder. He doesn't linger over the soft swell of her breasts or the line of her legs, although their ghosts are in his mind when he retreats to his own blanket roll on the far side of the fire. Despite his exhaustion, he's stretched too thin to fall asleep easily. He needs to relax, to slow the frantic beating of his heart and loosen his muscles. He reaches a hand down to his cock and strokes it into full hardness.

Merlin's had his share of youthful fumblings and kisses before coming to Camelot, but he never got very far with anyone except Will. He's certainly never held a naked girl in his arms, her head on his shoulder, his hands on her thighs, before Freya. He's never felt this close to anyone, except Arthur, which must be why Arthur intrudes into his thoughts now, the quirk of his mouth and the intensity in his eyes as he reaches out to Merlin, pulls him closer. Merlin pushes the image away, hard. He can't think of Arthur now. Arthur is strong and loved and cared for. Arthur is capable of looking after himself, and he's also surrounded by people who are there to look after him. Freya has nobody but Merlin. He strokes himself firmly, feeling the tension mount and coil within him.

She must feel like this sometimes, surely? He pushes aside the little voice in his head that whispers, She might, but not for you.

He feels guilty and ashamed as his hand speeds up, thinking of her soft lips and shy smile, her hands on his shoulders, the long lines of her legs tangled with his own as she cries out in joy, pushing herself up to meet him as he sinks into her.

He comes with a harsh gasp. On the other side of the hearth, Freya breathes softly, six feet and an infinity away.

Of all the hardships he knew he would face on the road, Merlin had never expected loneliness.

***

On the second morning she wakes up in the stone cottage, Freya realises that the rain has stopped. Merlin is asleep on the other side of the fire, rolled away from her; all she can see is a long bundle of blanket, bent in the middle, with a rumpled black head at one end. It makes her smile. Of all the gifts Merlin has given her this is the simplest and most unexpected; the ability to smile again.

She sheds the blanket, dons her old ragged robe and steals quietly out of the cottage. The rain may have stopped but the early morning light is dour and oppressive. Freya looks around her; immediately in front of the cottage is a clearing, small tree stumps protruding from the ground where someone's cut them down for wood. A path leads off to one side, around the mountain. To the other side, just beyond the barn entrance, is what looks like the overgrown remains of a kitchen garden. Freya ventures into the low tangle of plants and finds leeks, onion and the fat leathery pods of pale beans. There are other plants in the tangle, but she loses interest; the winding path is more interesting, and she makes her way along it barefoot, careful not to slip in the mud.

The path, bordered by mountain on one side and woods on the other, is not long and terminates in a small irregular clearing nestled into a cleft in the mountainside. Water trickles from the rockface over a green mist of moss and into a pool. It's peaceful and pretty, even in the dull morning air; Freya imagines that when the sun shines it must be enchanting. She crouches by the pool's side and dips her hand in. Inside her, the spiralling twist of fear and loathing and self-hatred has quietened, perhaps blessed into stillness by this place. Tears well in her eyes and spill forth in a hot gush.

The water is icy; she can see her fingers clearly, but below the water turns opaque and she's not sure how deep it is. There are shadows at the bottom of the pool.

Freya doesn't know how long she sits there, trailing her hand through the sharpness of the water, but she's not surprised when she presently hears wet leaves squelching under Merlin's boots.

"Freya?"

She looks up at him. His hair is still ruffled and his face sleep-shuttered, turning concerned as he sees her tear-stained face. He must have come out to find her the moment he woke and realised she was gone.

"Can we stay here? For a little while, at least?"

His eyes light up with joy, but he fights to keep his mouth steady as he says, "That's... not quite a lake."

"It's good enough," says Freya. She stands up, brushing dirt and leaves from her skirt.

Merlin lets his smile break out, dazzling her with its openness. It squeezes her heart.

***

They go back to the market town for supplies. They buy corn and take it to the miller's, buy leather and take it to the cobbler's to be made into shoes for Freya. They buy cloth and scissors, thread and needles, a brass pot and a metal jug. Merlin counts the coin they have left, carefully. There's not much, but with the corn and what's left in the garden, and with what they can forage, he thinks they'll be all right. It's too late in the year for planting. They will have to be careful. At least there are some supplies they needn't bother buying, because Merlin's magic can provide. Tinderboxes, for instance.

"In spring, we'll get a pig and some chickens," he promises Freya as they grub in the garden, pulling weeds and carefully disentangling plants, checking for disease and pests. Both of them know how to do this, from lives left behind. Merlin thinks, this will be my life now. No wars, no quests, no great deeds; just making things grow, catching things for food, learning more about each other. It sounds like a happy life, if simple. He's lived like this before, he can do it again. And of course, with Freya he doesn't need to hide who he is and what he can do. He can let his magic flow.

He's so tired, and the sweat at the back of his neck itches. Peasant's rash, he hears Arthur saying.

***

Freya doesn't understand. It's been six days since they stopped running, but Merlin is looking worse every day. He's sleeping later every morning, but the shadows under his eyes are deeper and the bounce has gone out of his step. The final straw comes when he brings the horses in from the clearing where he tethers them during the day and falls asleep in the barn. He insists that there's nothing wrong; he's just a little tired. When she gently presses him, he gets agitated and stomps out to catch rabbits.

It is like a punch to the gut when she realises what might be happening, and why he might be refusing to tell her. He is so good; there is no other word to describe the patience and tenderness with which he cares for her and protects her, even from herself. Now it's her turn to protect him; but she must be sure before she takes her next steps.

That evening after dinner she asks him, "Merlin, will you comb my hair for me?" and clamps down ruthlessly on her guilt when his tired face lights up. He's become less eager to touch her lately, as if sensing that she doesn't desire it as strongly as he does. Now he looks as if she's offered him an unexpected gift. He sits on the stool, Freya on the floor between his knees, and works away gently at the strands and tangles with the dragon comb she has not touched since he gave it to her.

When he's done Merlin lays the comb aside and strokes her hair gently. Freya reaches up, captures one of his hands and turns her head to kiss it; his hands are lean and strong. She nestles her cheek into his palm, letting her lips move softly against his long graceful fingers.

"Merlin," she whispers, pressing a kiss to the inside of his wrist, and hears his breath catch. When she turns to look at him she sees hope and uncertainty on his face, but also something unexpected; a kind of wariness she hasn't seen there before. She ignores it, reaching up a hand to the back of his neck where the hair curls slightly, pulling his face down to hers and kissing him lightly three times, increasing the passion each time, parting her lips until her tongue meets his, just a touch.

"Come and lie down with me," she says.

***

They kiss for a long time, side by side on the narrow pallet, hands in each other's hair; Merlin cannot stop stroking her arms, her face, her sides. It's Freya who takes one of his hands and places it on her breast, smiling at him, and then he realises that she really means this, and that it's really going to happen. When she slides her hands up under his tunic, over the planes of his back, he shivers; he kisses the swell of her breast as he tries to slip her gown aside. They get tangled up in one another's clothes until Freya pulls away from him and yanks off her gown. She waits, leaning on her elbows, as he struggles out of his own clothes, his limbs feeling suddenly weak and a grin on his face which he knows is foolish. Even though he's seen them many times now, he can't seem to take his eyes from her breasts.

"You're so beautiful," he murmurs, kissing her nipples. Freya gasps, arching her back, and Merlin sucks gently at each nipple in turn while sliding his fingers up her thighs. She opens to him, pushing and wriggling her pelvis to get his fingers in the right place.

Merlin may be foolish, but he's not stupid; somewhere at the back of his mind, before their clothes came off, he'd suspected that Freya's sudden passion for him was not without its hidden purpose. He is also not made of stone, and he's wanted this for so long; but he desperately wants Freya to feel the same way. When his fingers find her wet he makes a noise of astonished joy, which she echoes as she joins her fingers with his, showing him what she needs. His cock bumps against her leg, leaving little spots of dampness; he noses down the flat plane of her stomach and kisses his way up her thighs. When he spreads her petalled folds he's overwhelmed by the scent of her, salt as sea-spray but sweet as hay in summer.

It's not perfect, the first time. Merlin follows the pattern of Freya's gasps and cries, increasing whatever draws out the most noise until she gives a musical multi-note cry, grinding herself against his face. Her thighs clenching around his head make it difficult to breathe and he pulls his mouth away a fraction too soon; she cries out, scrabbling at herself to draw the last few shudders out with her own fingers. She doesn't seem disappointed, though, as she pulls him up to kiss him breathless, spreads herself out beneath him and guides him into her. "Yes, yes," she whispers as he thrusts wildly; her skin is slippery and clutching, her smooth limbs hooking around him. He can't seem to keep a rhythm, the urgency pulsing through him, but when he gasps out "Oh, I'm going to-" she clutches at his back and says urgently, "Yes, I want, please-" and Merlin groans deep as he comes and comes with his face in Freya's neck and her scent all around him.

***

Later they lie drowsily together, holding hands. Freya is playing with Merlin's fingers.

"Mustn't sleep," Merlin murmurs. "Got to stop the curse."

"You can sleep a little," Freya whispers. "I'll wake you when it's time."

"Can't risk it." His eyes are so heavy. The cottage is warm and a little smoky, and Freya is warm and soft curled against his side.

"It's getting harder to stop it," she whispers, "isn't it?"

"Mmmm."

"That's why you're so tired all the time."

"Mmmm."

She kisses his cheek. "It'll be better in the morning."

Merlin closes his eyes just for a moment. He will not sleep, but he swims away through sunlit water, into the courtyard where warm rain is falling on Arthur's armour, the great drops spreading into greasy smears where they land; there are snakes and Arthur is slashing at them, they crawl over his feet and flatten and form themselves into boots, Merlin drops his armful of swords and wakes with a jolt and his heart beating fast.

The fire has burned low, and Freya's gone.

***  
It takes Arthur no time at all to realise that Merlin is connected to the missing horses. He doesn't say anything, but he quietly ceases investigating the theft and orders a closer watch on the stables, just in case his father enquires. It's easy to persuade himself that Merlin didn't mean to steal them; he's just borrowed them, and he'll bring them back any day now. To think otherwise is to think that Merlin doesn't intend to come back, and those are thoughts Arthur can't bear.

It's not until Arthur is standing at his father's side in the council chambers, listening to Halig saying his farewells under the dark cloud of Uther's displeasure, that the rest of the tale slots into place for him. He watches Halig's doughy face, reddened and sprinkled with bristles, and remembers coming across him standing over Merlin; Merlin, pinned to a chair, trembling but defiant. A prickling heat rolls over his skin, but he feels no outrage or betrayal, just a stone in his belly, sinking. He's surprised at himself.

Merlin, you idiot, what on earth have you got yourself into?

Arthur walks down to the courtyard with Halig, ostensibly to see him off, and lets the man fumble through his ungracious thanks and farewells before asking offhandedly, "Where do you intend to search for the girl now?"

"She came from the western lands, my lord. I believe that she has returned there. I yet hope to bring her before your father in chains and see her pay for her treachery."

Halig leers, and Arthur keeps his face impassive to hide his distaste.

As soon as his duties permit, he makes his way to Gaius' chambers. It's late afternoon and Gaius is bent over his cookpots.

"Sire, come in. I do apologise; I am preparing myself a little supper. Old men eat early, you know." He wipes his hands on a cloth and gestures to Arthur to be seated.

"The Druid girl," says Arthur without preamble, and notes with some admiration that Gaius manages to keep his face mostly under control. "Merlin's run away with the Druid girl, hasn't he?"

Gaius is hesitating, the turmoil on his face clear now.

"Come on, Gaius. I'm not angry at you, but I need to know if I'm going to bring him back."

Gaius sags onto the bench opposite him, his face suddenly grey and full of pain. His voice is thin and shaky.

"Yes, sire. You are correct. I have been so terribly worried."

"Do you know where they've gone? Would Merlin go to Ealdor?"

"No, sire, I do not believe he would take her there. He would fear being pursued there, and he would not wish to put his mother in danger."

"Danger?" But then Arthur remembers. "The girl's dangerous, isn't she? Halig said she was cursed."

"I fear so, sire. I suspect that she may have been connected to the nighttime slayings."

"You mean -" Arthur feels the world drop away from under his feet. "You mean Merlin's taken off with an enchantress who's killed innocent people?"

"I believe the killing is against her will, sire. From the little I have learned, I believe that she is cursed to transform into a beast which is doomed to kill. This would be why the Druids refused to help her. If she is beyond their help - "

There's a rushing sound in Arthur's ears. The ground is gone, the wind whistles about him, there's an abyss and he's falling; it's over in a heartbeat and then he's sitting opposite Gaius, staring at him, wanting him to say something different. There's a long moment of silence. Arthur realises that he's breathing hard, as if he's been running. He clenches his fists to stop his hands from trembling, and leaves without a word.

As he strides down the corridor Arthur's mind is working away; excuses, supplies, terrain, strategy. If the girl came from the west, he's betting she won't want to go back where she might be recognised, and east would lead towards Ealdor and villages where Merlin might be known. South to the sea, then, or north to the mountains. He thinks of Merlin seduced and discarded, or bloodied and torn. Both thoughts pain him unbearably.

Tonight he will plan. Tomorrow he will ride.

***

Stumbling into a ditch, Merlin wishes there was a spell to help him see in the dark. Quite possibly there is one in the book and he just hasn't found it. He promises himself that he'll look for it when he's found Freya. When, not if. He could use the blue light, but he can't take the risk; if she sees it, she'll just hide and wait for him to pass. The moon is waning and periodically obscured by cloud, its light weak and fitful; he could check for tracks, but in his panic he's trampled around the cottage, covering any footprints Freya could have made. He wishes he'd paid more attention to Arthur, asked him how he tracked his prey on hunting expeditions.

Of course, he could wait it out until midnight. When the curse strikes, there will be noise. But he has no idea how long that will be, or how long a head start Freya has. Midnight could be three or four hours away, and she could get far enough in that time that he won't be able to hear her.

The horses are still in the barn, so she's on foot. She can't have gone far. Where would she go? Not south, towards the nearby town and its people. She would want to stay away from anyone she might hurt. North, then, taking the road further past the mountains? He stands in the soft mud of the road and listens. The wind blows; leaves and grass rustle like wings, almost masking the sound of trickling water. A rock tumbles down the mountainside.

A rock; and then another, the dry crick of stone against stone, moving and settling. Merlin turns his face towards the mountain, stands absolutely still, and waits. His eyes feel swollen with the strain.

A pause. Another dry rock noise. The clouds stream away from the moon and he sees movement in the dim light, partway up the slope.

What is she doing up there? But he has no time to think more before his feet take off, moving of their own accord. He hears his own voice, high and ragged and desperate, "Freya! Come back! Freya!"

Freya does not respond. Merlin whispers the blue globe of light into existence and sends it soaring towards her, until he can see her, bent half over as she uses her hands to help herself climb. When the light reaches her she turns; he sees the pale blur of her face, and then she turns away and begins to move again, pulling herself upwards, desperate. Stones slip from beneath her feet and hit him like clenched fists.

"Freya!" He trips and his knee strikes stone, but he's on his feet again before he's even registered the pain. "Freya!"

Freya stumbles and loses her footing, clutches at stone, misses; she slides in a shower of small stones, down the loose scree of the mountain. She's closer now, and when she gets back on her feet she's moving slowly, obviously in pain. Merlin surges forward; one step, two, five. He can hear the high sound of her breathing now, thin and strained.

And then she is within reach, and he leaps and grasps her and they slide into a heap. Freya jerks away from him; Merlin grasps her arms. Freya writhes within his grasp, but he makes a cage of his limbs and encloses her there. She jerks and struggles, and Merlin tucks his face down into her neck and holds her until her strength gives out, and then holds her while she sobs herself dry.

They're both damp with sweat and tears when Merlin raises his head. There's a slow rumble of thunder in the darkness.

"Are you..." whispers Merlin. He wants to touch her face. He aches, and his scrapes and abrasions sting.

"I'm sorry." Her eyes are closed.

"Come home," he says, willing his voice steady.

"I can't."

"Let's go home."

"Merlin, you have to let me go. Please."

The air between them is brittle; the wrong word will fracture it.

"Come home with me, Freya. Please, please."

Freya's trembling, her face beginning to blur with tears and weariness.

"It's no good. I'm so tired. I'm tired of everything. I have nothing to give but death and pain, and -"

"Nothing? But - in the cottage, tonight? That was something, it was - it was - we were together."

"Merlin, I've killed people. I don't know how many. I'm killing you."

"You're not, you're not! Freya, you can't just give up!" Merlin heaves himself to his knees, clutching her arms; he can't let go of her. "I need you. I want to help. I don't know how, not yet, but I will, I will fix this, I promise."

"How can you?" Freya's voice is distant, as if she's a long way from him. "Even the Druids couldn't help me. There is no hope."

The thunder sounds again, like the peal of a great bell. Rain begins to fall; and with it Merlin is struck by a memory. Suddenly the world pivots, swings on its axis and settles into a different place.

"Maybe the Druids can't, but Freya!" His hands slide to hers and grasp them. "There's a place, a special place, the Isle of the Blessed. There are people there, more powerful than the Druids. They have the power of life and death. We'll go there. I know they can help you."

Freya raises her eyes to his. They look at one another with unguarded faces, unearthly in the blue glow.

"We're getting wet," says Merlin, smiling, willing her with all his being to believe. "And I think it must be nearly midnight. Come home with me, and we'll sleep all day tomorrow, and then we'll go to the Isle of the Blessed."

***  
Freya carefully wraps their new possessions in the cloth they bought at the market a few days ago, and Merlin ties the bundles to the horses. The few things that are too heavy or bulky are left in the cottage, carefully covered against spiders and mice. Merlin insists upon it; he still seems to think that they'll be coming back. Freya smiles sadly as she watches the care he takes, making sure the window is covered against the wind, spending a last few minutes in their carefully tended garden. She's back in the velvet gown, looking very much worse for wear now, but Merlin convinces her that they need to keep up the pretence of mistress and servant.

They ride south, through the same villages they'd seen on their initial journey. A few people recognise them from days ago and call out greetings or questions. Several of them want to talk, asking if there's news from the north country; travellers are the only way they can find out what's happening. Merlin is pleasant and noncommittal; his mistress became ill some days ago and he has spent his time attending her. Now she is well enough to travel, they are making their way back home. Freya's pale face, the gingerly way she sits on her horse and Merlin's heavy eyes lend plausibility to the tale, and they are believed.

They're much slower going south than they were coming north, weariness making them travel for shorter periods and sleep longer. Merlin seems to be growing thinner, although she doesn't see how it's possible; his face is hollow and dry, and the shadows under his eyes are violet-tinged. She sleeps like the dead after her transformations, but she can tell from Merlin's exhaustion that it's taking more out of him every night to rein in the creature inside her, and that it's close to breaking his hold. At night they lie side by side, staring at the dark sky with their hands just touching, dried out and flattened with exhaustion. For the most part they travel in silence; not even Merlin wants to talk. Freya doesn't know whether he's too tired or whether he's apprehensive about whether they will find the help they seek at the Isle of the Blessed, but she misses his chatter. She herself feels limp and drained, as if everything that was keeping her upright and moving has drained out and left her a shell. She's just following Merlin, at this point; his determination is like the heart of a fire, bright and steady even as everything else burns and falls away.

The other difference between this journey and their first is that she wakes each morning with Merlin's chest fitted to her back and his lanky limbs wrapped around her. Once she wakes with his hot dry hand on her breast and aches, feeling the gap between what he wishes of her and what she has to give.

 

***

When Arthur was a little boy he'd had one loose tooth that had particularly annoyed him. He'd lost milk teeth before, but this was the last one and was particularly stubborn. It moved and twinged at all the worst moments, like while trying to eat apples or run drills, but it stayed firmly put no matter how much he wiggled it with his fingers. He was constantly worrying away at it with his tongue when he thought nobody would see.

Finally his father got sick of him fidgeting and squirming and sucking his cheeks hollow, and made Gaius yank the tooth out with a huge pair of iron forceps, which Arthur felt was just overkill. He was glad to be rid of the tooth, of course, because it had been such a nuisance. But without it, he felt strangely bereft. His tongue kept fitting its way into the socket almost of its own accord, working away at the tender gum, making it sore, seeking fulfilment.

Missing Merlin, Arthur thinks as he rides north, is very much like missing that stubborn tooth. Except that it hurts so much more, and this time he won't end up with a satisfactory replacement. There could never be any satisfactory replacement for Merlin.

***  
"Here?" asks Freya incredulously.

"Here," says Merlin.

"But -" Freya looks at the mist-shrouded lake, the rickety pier and the tiny boat.

"I've been here before," says Merlin dully. "We get there on the boat. It won't take long; the island's very close." He slides from his horse, weariness in every line of his body.

Freya looks at the water again, and the dark shadow, which shows dimly through, drifts of mist. There appears to be nothing blessed about it. A breeze blows over the water and brings with it a dank smell; she shivers. Suddenly she would very much prefer to stay on this side of the water.

It's only been Merlin keeping her going this long; she's thought nothing of herself, keeping her mind clear as glass, not daring to hope. For Merlin's sake, though, she's been a mirror reflecting his purpose back at him, recognising that only hope has kept him upright and moving.

"It looks - it looks frightening. I thought the Isle of the Blessed would be..." She hesitates for the right word. "Safer."

Merlin looks up at her. His grin lights up his face even through the weariness.

"It's safe, I promise." He reaches up and curls a hand over hers. "It's a little bit late. Would you like to stay here and rest, and go over there tomorrow?"

"Won't it be too much for you, tonight?" asks Freya anxiously.

"I'd like to rest," admits Merlin. "But if you want to go over right away, we can. I know you must be in a hurry to find out if they can help."

Freya looks at the determination on his face and realises what will hold him.

"I'm tired too. Let's have one more night together, just us."

Even when they've built a fire and settled the horses, though, Merlin does not seem at ease. His face is closed as a fist and Freya suspects that the only reason he isn't fidgeting is his utter weariness. He sits cross-legged beside her and looks at the fire with unseeing eyes; she prepares food and makes him eat before she asks any questions.

"What were you here for, before?"

"My friend. He was dying. I made them save him."

"What was wrong with him?"

"He was bitten by a magical beast. There was no cure. Only magic."

Freya is silent for a moment, looking at him; his face is still closed but he's wringing his hands. It's so obvious that there's a long story left unsaid beneath his words. She realises that Merlin, for all he has chattered about Ealdor, has told her little about his life in Camelot and the people he's left behind there.

"What was his name, your friend?" she asks diffidently.

"Arthur." A little smile hovers at the corners of Merlin's mouth, and is gone again in a blink. "His name is Arthur."

Freya waits, but nothing more is forthcoming.

"Do you miss him?"

Merlin looks at her. There is something dreadful in the stillness of his face.

"Were you happy?" Freya whispers.

The moment hangs between them, solidifying the air like glass. Freya believes for an instant that he will stand up and walk away from her, but then the fire pops and they both start. They raise their eyes to one another's faces and smile with the sudden relief and ease that a shared moment of embarrassment can bring.

"I'm sorry," says Freya gently. "I shouldn't have asked."

"It's not that," says Merlin. Blood blooms suddenly in his cheeks. "I - I don't know what I'm doing now. I'm lost. I want - I wanted - "

Freya reaches out and puts a hand on his, leaning a little closer to him. Merlin turns his face to hers; his eyelids drop closed as he kisses her, becoming bolder as she responds. Freya feels almost drunk with weariness as they sway together, leaning, dissolving into one another.

They undress, each movement weighed with a kind of a kind of heavy precision born of exhaustion, and sigh as their skins meet. They move slowly together, languorous and smooth, as if they've done this a hundred times instead of only once. The smoke from the fire roils around them like scarves. When Merlin comes his face is still with concentration and yet at the same time utterly melting.

"Don't run away, this time," Merlin mumbles as they lie side by side, drained and peaceful.

"I won't," Freya promises, meaning it. She kisses his eyelids, his lips, the shell of his ear, feeling her heart heave and swell with tenderness.

When Merlin's boot first scrapes on the steps that lead to the courtyard, he is surprised at how quiet the Isle of the Blessed feels. He's expected trouble; after all, the last time he was here, he'd killed the priestess who confronted him. He had needed that afternoon and evening of rest to strengthen himself for this; he'd expected power to come cascading out of the very walls surrounding them. Instead there is nothing but silence. All he can hear is the lapping of water against rock. For a moment he fears that when he killed Nimueh the magic of the Isle had perished also, and that he has brought Freya on a useless journey.

Freya herself is pale and silent beside him, her skin almost transparent; he can see fine tracery of veins in the shadows beneath her eyes. She has been very quiet ever since they awoke this morning. Merlin holds her hand as they mount the steps, trying to somehow infuse her with strength and hope through that grip.

There is a woman standing in the courtyard, cloaked and hooded and of undeterminable age. Her face in the hood's shadow at first seems smooth and unlined, but when she speaks it falls into creases and lines. She could be as young as Freya or as old as Gaius. It's impossible to tell.

"Merlin," she says, and her voice is dark and earthy. "Greetings to you. I had not expected your return to the Isle so soon after you killed my sister."

Merlin stiffens, sensing Freya freeze beside him; it lasts only a moment and then she eases, her hand relaxing in his.

"Nimueh was your sister?"

She shrugs. "Our bond was strong although not born of blood. All those whose power is drawn from the Old Religion are of one family, Merlin. Nimueh was your sister as well."

"Nimueh was nothing like me! She was cruel and selfish -"

"And that is nothing like you? You came to her for help. She gave it freely. In return for her help you killed her."

"I didn't want to kill her! But she killed people in Camelot. She tried to kill Gaius and my mother -"

The woman raises a hand. "Enough. I assume you have come neither to beg my forgiveness nor to atone for Nimueh's death, so tell me why you are here."

Merlin draws a breath. Beside him, Freya has begun to tremble slightly. He doesn't know whether it's from exhaustion or hope or apprehension or - please no - fear and despair. He keeps his voice low so that it will not shake.

"I have come to ask your help, but not for myself. Freya has been cursed by an enchantress in unjust revenge. She transforms into a beast, a Bastet, and cannot prevent herself from killing people. Please, can you help her?"

The woman smiles. "And if I do, am I to expect the same treatment at your hands as you dealt my sister?"

"I promise, if you don't hurt anyone, I will not hurt you."

The woman smiles and comes closer to them. She reaches a hand out to Freya.

"Don't be afraid, little sister. Come and let me see you."

Freya drops Merlin's hand, and he reaches for her but she walks past him with her face still. The old woman - she is old, after all, Merlin decides - smooths Freya's hair back from her forehead, letting her fingers linger on Freya's temple. Freya draws a long breath, but doesn't move.

The woman closes her eyes for a moment, her face falling into sorrowful lines before she takes her hand away.

"I am sorry. I cannot lift this curse."

Merlin sees Freya's eyes close, but there is no pain on her face; he realises with horror that she has been expecting this. The look on her face is almost one of relief.

"But there must be something! Please!" he implores.

The woman shakes her head, but even as she responds to Merlin her eyes are on Freya.

"The beast has been brought to life as surely as if it were birthed from its mother. It lives within her. It cannot just be removed as if it never had being. The only way to stop it from killing is for it to die."

"And we can't kill it without killing Freya?" Merlin whispers.

"Can you see or hear the beast now? It hides within her waiting for its moment. If you could see it, you could kill it. But it would kill her too. She is the vessel."

"But can't you - "

"Merlin," interrupts Freya calmly. "It's all right."

Merlin can feel the tears heating his face. "No."

"It's all right, really." Freya is smiling. "You did your best to help me, and I'm grateful, but there's nothing to be done. It's all right."

Merlin's tears spill over; he cannot help it. Freya isn't looking at him; her face is remote, as if she's travelled into a realm where he cannot reach her.

"Wait, little sister. I said that I could not lift the curse. I did not say that there was nothing to be done."

Freya's expression does not change, and it is Merlin who steps forward to implore, "Please. Tell us."

The woman turns her eyes to Merlin. "Once brought into being, the beast must exist somewhere. It cannot be killed from without, for you would also destroy the vessel. And it cannot be killed from within, as most mortals do not have the power to fight such magic. But if the beast were to live within one who is powerful with magic, that one could fight it from within. With magic it can be overpowered and slain by the vessel itself-"

"No!" Freya interrupts.

Merlin feels his heart leap within him in sudden hope. "Can you do that? Transfer the beast into me?"

"I can do it."

"No, Merlin!" cries Freya.

Merlin turns to her but avoids looking at her face as he stretches his hand out and says "Swefe nu." He leaps forward to catch her as she falls, gently easing her unconscious form to the ground before he turns to the old woman and says, "Tell me what I must do."

***

***

One advantage of this Merlin hunt is that Arthur's on his own and incognito. Well, mostly incognito. It's clear that he's a knight, but not clear that he's the Prince of Camelot, and therefore he gets to talk to the people of the towns and villages who would normally be kept at arm's length from him. It's something he's secretly wanted to do more of, but the King believes that commoners' access to royal audiences should be strictly controlled and held only in formal pre-arranged situations. Arthur usually has to sit grandly aloof while his knights do the questioning and organising. Now every time he comes into a village he's able to talk freely and there's something exhilarating about it.

He's arrived in a ramshackle village only to be surrounded by children, all calling out and offering to show him to the alehouse or the inn. Arthur hesitates, wondering whether it would be better at this point to go to the inn or just to chat to some of the villagers in the field. When he slides off his horse, his attention is immediately drawn by a tall freckled lad who says, "Could I mind your horse, sire?" He reaches out a gentle, reverent hand to Arthur's mare, smiling in a fond, soft-eyed way that reminds Arthur of Merlin with the unicorn.

"Like horses, do you?" Arthur asks, amused.

"Oh, yes!" The boy's eyes glow. "I want to work with horses one day, in a lord's stable, maybe. But most of 'em we see round here are carthorses, or old hacks. He's the best horse I've ever seen. What's his name?"

"He is a she," says Arthur, even more amused, "and her name is Llamrei."

"Llamrei," repeats the boy, stroking the mare's nose. "Beautiful bridle, sire. We rarely see one so fine. There was a pair of horses came through a little while back that were fine, but not so fine as this."

"A pair of horses?" Arthur asks, raising an eyebrow as if he were merely curious and not aching with sudden desperation. "Who was riding those, do you remember?"

"A lady and her man, sire. Didn't speak to the lady, but he let me pet his horse."

"What did he look like?"

The boy frowns. "Black hair. Big ears. Looked tired."

Arthur produces a coin from his pouch. "How long ago was this?"

"More than a week, sire." The boy nods, his eyes fixed on the coin.

Arthur's shoulders sag. More than a week ago, and they could be anywhere by now. He hands the coin over.

"And then again day before yesterday," adds the boy as he takes it.

"The day before yesterday? You've seen these people twice, and the last time was the day before yesterday?" Arthur's heart leaps and hammers.

"Yes, sire. First time they was going north. Second time, coming back."

"They was going to the Isle," pipes up a smaller child, a girl. Arthur swings round to her.

"The Isle?"

"How do you know?" asks the first boy scornfully.

"I heard 'em say. I was looking at the lady. She said, where is the isle, and he said, he said... I don't remember."

"Where is the Isle?" asks Arthur.

"Can't go there," says the little girl. "It's haunted."

"It's not haunted," says the boy scornfully. "It's dangerous."

"How do I get to the Isle?" asks Arthur, producing another couple of coins.

The boy points. "Go past the mill till the road forks. Take the left hand fork. When the road stops just follow the stream till you get to the lake."

Arthur hands a coin to each child.

"When you are ready," he says to the boy, "come south to Camelot. I'll get you a job in the stable there."

"You know the stablemaster?" asks the boy excitedly.

"Oh yes," says Arthur, feeling absurdly happy all of a sudden. "I'll make sure you get a place. Tell him... tell him that you helped find something the Crown Prince had lost."

He swings back into the saddle and turns his face into the wind.

***  
Freya wakes with a stiff neck and sore shoulder. She's lying on the ground, flagstones digging into her hip and blades of grass gently brushing her arms. Her head is pillowed on something soft; when she moves, she realises that it's Merlin's jacket.

She sits up. Merlin is sitting nearby with his back stiff against the stone altar, perfectly still, with his knees drawn up to his chest and his arms wrapped around his legs.

"Merlin?" she asks hesitantly.

Merlin does not respond. Freya notices that he's trembling slightly. She crawls forward and touches his hand. It seems to rouse him from whatever daze he's in, and he turns his face to look at her.

"Freya," he says softly. "How do you feel?"

"You did it, didn't you?" asks Freya, and it almost isn't a question. "Merlin, you - you can't do that, you can't. That is my fault, my burden."

"Not any more," says Merlin. He unfolds himself and reaches out to take her hands. "Freya, please understand. It'll be all right. I can make you free - "

"Make me free by trapping yourself?"

"Yes! No. Yes." Merlin shakes his head in frustration. "By taking it on to kill. I can kill it, and then we'll both be free." He is clasping her hands tightly; his own hands are cold. "Freya, please. It's all right. How do you feel?"

"How do you feel?"

Merlin gives her a little half-smile, one corner of his mouth dipped and the other quirked. "I asked you first."

"I don't feel any different. Merlin, how can you be sure she did something?"

"He is sure," says a voice. "And he will need your help soon." Freya looks up. The woman who'd greeted them is standing nearby.

"Why did you do it?" asks Freya, angry. She pulls her hands away from Merlin's and stands up, facing the woman. "Why would you make him go through this? Why would you do such a thing?"

"You have caused death and much grief. I have taken that from you. You will kill no longer, nor suffer for deeds not of your choosing. Whatever Merlin may think, little sister, we of the Old Religion do not wish to see more suffering in the world."

There's the scrape of boot-leather against stone; Merlin is getting to his feet. He seems stiff, as if he hasn't moved in a long time.

"We'd better go," he says.

"Why?" asks Freya. "Shouldn't we stay here, where - where there's help?"

"I want to go," says Merlin, tightly. "Please."

Freya turns to the priestess. "What will happen to him?"

"The beast will rise within him, and he will fight it. He has power enough." The woman steps forward and takes one of Freya's hands between both of hers. "You must help him. Look after him, protect him from harm. He will need all his strength to fight, and the fight may be long. You must hold him to you. Comfort him. Keep him tied to himself."

There is a swell of panic in Freya's chest, rising into her throat in waves. "But - what do I do? What will he do? If he can't kill it, I can't do magic, I can't make him sleep, like he did me. Can't we stay here, with you?"

The old eyes are kind. "I cannot help you in this. And Merlin needs to leave this place. There is a death on his soul; he can feel it here. It does not rest easy with him."

Freya feels hot and stupid with tears. "I don't know how to help!"

"You must leave now," says the priestess. "You will know how to help, when the time comes. You must remind him who he is, and what he is to you." She lets Freya's hand drop. "Go now.

Merlin is standing nearby throughout their conversation, watching. When Freya turns to him, he nods, offering her his hand and a soft smile.

"Freya," says the priestess. "If you should ever wish to return, you will be welcome."

All the way back, as the boat glides silently across the water and the mist curls around them, Freya studies Merlin's face. His jaw is set, the skin seems stretched too tight over the high-boned cheeks, but he smiles when he meets her gaze.

 

***  
By the time they've arrived back at the sheltered spot where the horses are peacefully cropping the grass, night has almost fallen. Merlin lights a fire magically, and they sit by it while they eat their bread and cold pease pottage. Freya is very quiet. Whenever Merlin looks at her, he catches only the edge of her glance as she quickly looks away. When he looks at the fire or down at his hands, he can feel her eyes on him. It's as if they're taking it in turns.

When Merlin can't bear the silence any longer, he musters his most winsome grin and asks, "Are you still angry at me?"

Freya looks at him and the small, calm smile appears on her face.

"Does anyone ever stay angry at you, Merlin?"

"Not for long," Merlin tells her cheerfully. He sidles closer and slips an arm around her shoulders. They sit companiably before the crackling fire. Merlin holds out a hand and makes the flames dip and weave with gentle flicks of his long fingers. No matter how clumsy he can be, when his magic flows it's all smoothness and grace. It's reassuring to him, to be able to make the fire dance; it helps him keep away the thin whisper at his shoulder, the knowledge that he has given himself over to something over which he has no control. If he thinks about the Isle and the priestess, the fear thrills through him so keen and cold that it physically hurts. A terrible prisoning chasm of pain and fear pursues him, creeping closer; its cold breath whistles past him.

"Did she tell you what will happen?" Freya asks, finally. "What to do?"

Merlin nods. "She said... it would hurt. But I can bear it."

The priestess' words skitter past his mind, dry and spiderlike. Have you ever felt real pain, Merlin? Freya bears it every night, but for her it is mercifully quick. Your time will be longer. I hope you can bear it.

He gulps, feeling foolish when it sounds too loud in the silence. "She said I need to remember who I am, the whole time. I need to bear it and wait and remember who I am, and keep the beast from taking control."

"And how do you do that?"

Merlin frowns. "By waiting it out. By bearing it."

"That's all? No spells? No magic words to cast it out?"

"No spells. I don't need them."

"Merlin, I don't understand. I thought the beast could only be defeated with magic. She said, with magic the beast can be slain. How can you slay the beast without words or a spell or, I don't know -" Freya's voice is rising.

"Freya, it's me!" Merlin tries to hold her tightly as she shifts, her body going stiff against him. "I am magic. It's in me. It's stronger than that witch's curse, stronger than the beast, stronger than anything. All I have to do is remember that."

He turns to face her fully, gripping her hands tightly. "It will be all right. I promise."

Freya is silent for a little while, eyes cast down. Merlin caresses the back of her hands with his thumbs.

At last, Freya says, very low and without looking up, "If you don't manage to kill the beast, Merlin, then you will kill me first, and then you will be loose upon the world. And nobody will have the power to stop you."

"But I will kill it," Merlin tries to keep his voice even, but his hurt bleeds into the higher tone. "My magic is strong. You've seen what I can do. All I need to do is remember who I am and keep fighting. I can do that. I can do it easier if you help me. Will you help me?" He holds her hands and ducks his head, trying to catch her glance, smiling and pulling her close again when she finally meets him smile for smile. He makes the flames arc high, curving and looping and bowing to Freya until he feels her relax. He hugs her closer to him, letting the warmth of her body soak into his as if it can keep away the terrible sureness of what is to come. This is what matters; Freya whole and free and smiling. He uses that thought, her warmth, to drive away the cold whine of despair.

Until the middle of the night, when the world tilts and throws him off, screaming, and breaks him apart with pain.

***  
Freya comes awake when her body thuds hard into the ground. Her outflung hand lands in the embers of the still-crackling fire and she screams with pain and shock. When she instinctively rolls away, cradling her blistered hand protectively against herself, she blunders against another warm body.

It's Merlin. Merlin with fire in his eyes, with pain and power crackling over his body like lightning.

His heels are digging into the ground, his body convulsing; he's jerking as if he's being beaten. He's whiter than anyone Freya has ever seen, but as she watches long uneven streaks of red appear on his hands and his face, as if some great force is scratching and pulling at his flesh under the skin. His mouth is open and he's gasping out unformed sounds which coalesce into a long, anguished moan.

"Merlin, Merlin!" She puts a hand to his face, and jerks it away in shock. It hurts; she doesn't know if he's colder than ice or hot as fire, but her skin feels burned. His body arcs up into a high curve, only head and heels touching the ground and his hands reaching out and clawing at the air. Freya grabs at one flailing arm, panicking, not exactly sure of what she's trying to do but feeling as if Merlin might fly apart while she watches. His arm shoots out of her grip as if she's smoke and air, and his elbow smashes into the side of her face. She hears her own voice cry out as she lands again, heavily on her sore hand; she can feel something sharp, a twig or small stones, embedding itself into a scrape on her chin.

There's a shout; it's not Merlin, it's someone else. Something is crashing through the woods; when she looks up there is a figure, indistinct against the trees. She can't hear the words over the thrumming in her ears and the wordless noises Merlin is making, but she sees the glint of firelight on metal.

"My lady!" she hears him call. He is striding towards them, sword drawn.

Desperately she scrambles away from him, towards Merlin, determined to put her own body between him and the man with the sword.

***

Arthur's always found that nothing combats feelings of inadequacy better than putting his sword to the defence of his people.

It's been a deeply frustrating day. He's so close to the lake that he thinks he can almost smell the water, and certainly the birds wheeling in the evening sky seemed to be heading to the same place; but as he got closer Llamrei had begun to limp, and by the time he'd dug out the stone from her hoof it was too dark to go on. No boatman would take a stranger across the lake in the dark; and without a boatman, trying to navigate his way over dark waters to an island he can't see would be sheer folly.

Arthur spends the first hours of the night scowling at the fire and cursing the feeble light of the waning moon, and gouging holes in branches with his belt knife, thinking of Merlin's guilelessness and gritting his teeth. It doesn't make sense that the Druid enchantress would keep Merlin safe all this time without a good reason, and Arthur is not reassured by any of the reasons he can come up with for why she might want to take Merlin to a dangerous and isolated place which the local people fear. Merlin could be bound to an altar, a sacrifice for strange Druidic rites, and Arthur has been held back from finding him by a simple stone.

His first thought when he hears the scream in the night is bandits; but what would bandits be doing so far from well-travelled roads? It's not unheard-of that someone might live by the lake, he supposes, some fisherman or smallholder scratching a meagre living. No doubt they would make an easy target so far from the safety of the town. He's on his feet, sword in one hand, before he knows it.

When he reaches the source of the distressed cries, at first he thinks he's too late. There is a well-dressed woman on the ground, moaning and trying to rise, and another figure on the far side of the fire, prone but moving slightly. Bandits, definitely, but it seems they have left their victims alive.

"Are you all right?" he calls, approaching the woman on the ground. "Who did this? My lady!"

When she raises her head and sees him - yes, she's definitely been beaten, there's blood on her face - the woman gasps and struggles away from him in panic. Perhaps she thinks he's another bandit. Arthur lowers his sword and steps forward, prepared to calm her but inwardly fuming; he's alone, he can't chase bandits and help these people at the same time. If only Merlin were here he could do the soft stuff while Arthur pursued the miscreants.

When he catches a proper look at the second figure on the ground, Arthur stops dead. It's like having a mountain dropped on him; the world goes black, a shower of cold stones shatters him, and there is no more air. He can't move; he just stares.

It's Merlin.

Merlin, moaning, in pain, his thin frame racked by great shudders, his skin streaked with - blood?

"Get away from him!" he shouts. His muscles won't obey and move him closer to Merlin; his feet are melded into the earth, but habit and instinct act before he knows it and his sword-arm raises imperturbably. As if he's in control.

In the firelight the woman blunders to her knees, partly shielding Merlin from him. He's expecting enchantment and sorcery, and still his legs won't move; but instead of chanting a spell, she implores "Don't hurt him."

"What?" Arthur's voice comes out higher and louder than he would intend, if he'd spoken of his own volition.

"He can't help it, it's a curse. He didn't mean to. Please, I have to help him."

Arthur's spine loosens with a shudder, and he can breathe again. He moves forward, lowering his sword but still wary. The girl is younger than he'd thought at first, her face bloodied and smudged and her fine gown a ruin; as he comes closer, she asks, "Will you let me help him?" There are tears on her face. Part of Arthur's mind is leaping ahead of the rest of him; he doesn't know what's happening, but this battered young woman doesn't seem a threat, and he still has the use of his sword. He nods, slowly, and watches.

***

Freya is trembling with exhaustion and fear and pain as she leans over Merlin's side and reaches out hesitantly. His jaw falls open as another spasm strikes him and he's jerking again, arms flailing violently; one forearm catches Freya on the side of the head and she falls back, huddling beside him. She needs to calm him, to stop him, but she's already in pain; how can she help if she can't get near him?

Leather creaks and chain jingles; the stranger is falling to his knees on the other side of Merlin's twisting body. Her throat is dry and before she can call out a warning, the stranger grips both Merlin's forearms firmly and pins them to his sides.

"Merlin," he says. "Merlin? Can you hear me?"

Freya gapes, thinking for a moment that her mind is deceiving her.

"You - Do you know him?"

"I know him," says the stranger tersely. "I've been looking for him." He looks up at her. "What did you do to him?"

"I didn't!" cries Freya. Something inside her is beginning to crumble.

Merlin's feet are scrabbling in the dirt, heels digging and crunching; although his upper body is heaving, shoulders jerking off the ground, his arms are stilled by the stranger's grip. His head jerks up as if alert and then drops back jarringly onto the ground.

"Merlin! What the - oh, for - you, just tell me what's wrong with him!" The stranger's voice is intense and getting louder.

"It's the beast."

"A beast? What beast? What are you talking about?"

"There is a beast within him," says Freya. "He has to fight it."

"But what - what is it, where did it come from?"

"But he'll be all right. He promised he would be all right!"

"He's not all right!" exclaims the stranger. His nostrils are flaring and his mouth curls in grim suspicion; he looks as if he'd like to shake her, but he doesn't dare let go of Merlin's arms.

"Please," says Freya. "Please listen." There's wetness on her lips, blood or tears, she's unsure which, and she licks away the salt; it gives her a strange ferocious strength. She suddenly feels astonished at herself, and her words come in short precise phrases given savage intensity by her choked voice. "He's been cursed. He can fight it, himself. He knows how. He needs to be anchored to the world, he needs to remember who he is, and that keep him strong." She reaches forward and puts her hand on the stranger's arm; he flinches, his face suddenly unguarded and looking very young in the firelight.

"Will you help?" asks Freya, fiercely.

The stranger's eyes meet hers and his face opens to her properly for the first time. She can see the moment he makes the decision; there's a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.

"Tell me what to do," he says firmly, but the tiny quiver in his voice gives the lie to his sternness.

"Can you hold him?" asks Freya. "We need to stop him hurting himself."

"Or us," observes the stranger, eyeing her bloodied face. He looks around, taking stock of the surroundings, and jerks his head towards the closest tree. "I'm going to get him over there where I can hang on to him better, all right?" He crouches up onto his heels, balancing, considering; then he swiftly unfolds to stand upright, yanking Merlin up by the arms, and manhandles Merlin's writhing body over to the tree. There's a strange heavy grace about his movements, a practiced smoothness and command. Freya watches as he settles with his own back propped against the tree's trunk, making a cage of his limbs to hold Merlin firmly against his chest.

"He's hot," says the stranger, as Merlin's head falls back against him, hitting his chin.

"It's the magic," says Freya. She finds the waterskin and splashes some onto Merlin's face. As she kneels beside them, the stranger looks at her and says, "I'm Arthur."

"Freya," says Freya. She takes Merlin's hand; it burns in hers like a fresh-boiled egg.

***  
***

Merlin is aflame with pain. The darkness splits and rivers of molten gems ooze from the cracks. Eyes open or shut, there is nothing but dazzlement.

The agony is everywhere; in his head, bursting in his chest, scraping under his skin, and he needs to fight and claw and hit. There is something there with him, something terrible which is trying to drag him, to suck him into darkness. It shakes him like a rag doll in a dog's black maw; it's going to shake him to pieces. It is all mouth, and it wants to draw him down and down and down into itself. If he goes he will shrink and be nothing. If he goes he can shake off the robes of flame and curl up safe in the darkness. If he goes the pain will stop.

If he goes something terrible will happen.

He knows what it wants; he can feel it sniffing the air, catching the blood-hot sweetness of meat nearby. He swallows violently, throat convulsing to keep from vomiting. It wants him to go into the darkness so badly. He hits out again and again, trying to make contact, but his arms and hands won't work properly and whatever he hits, he knows it's not the thing. Not the thing he needs to hit and claw.

The thing is pulling at him harder now, and he hisses at the pain. He's lying on something that hurts, and anything he touches hurts. Arms come around him, encircling, too warm; they surround him and he can't move. He writhes and thrashes, but he's held fast. The shifting coruscations begin slowly to take form, the flames dying to throbs and flares of dull red, and there are voices. He doesn't know who they are, but he knows they are good voices, and he reaches for them. He tries to speak, but his lips are stone and he doesn't seem to know what words to use. The voices don't stop, though. He can feel them, as well as hear them; they flow over his skin, funnel down his throat and trickle into every part of him until he's sodden with them.

***  
Arthur has lived through many dark nights in his life; nights of fear, pain and grief. None of them have been like this. He's horribly uncomfortable. He aches from being in one position for so long, and his back hurts from being pressed against a knobbly tree for hours. Merlin is hot in his arms, and sweat seems to be trickling into every possible crevice on his body. He's sure his trousers are soaked. Beside him, the girl - Freya - is holding Merlin's hand and talking to him.

At least Merlin's stopped wriggling and thrashing like a large and bony fish just off the line, and no longer makes those hoarse wordless cries. He still moans, though, and every time he does so Arthur feels a sharp drawn-out pain in his chest. It's been so long, and Merlin hasn't spoken to him or recognised him at all. Sometimes his head falls back onto Arthur's shoulder and his eyes are looking right into Arthur's, but there's nothing there but pain and desperation. Sometimes he coughs blood. Earlier in the night he'd vomited, spewing blood-streaked froth weakly onto the ground and onto Freya's fine gown; Freya had wiped his mouth with water and kept talking. Arthur is amazed that he'd felt no revulsion at all.

Freya has been talking for what seems like a long time, and there are still tears trickling down her face. She's been talking about familiar things, things Merlin can hold on to, that will remind him of who he is and where he belongs. Arthur has learned quite a lot about where they've been and what they've been doing.

"Our cottage, Merlin, remember? Remember the garden, with the leeks and the beans? I know you don't like beans, but you've never tasted my bean and rabbit stew. You like rabbit, Merlin, I know. You told me you used to trap them in Ealdor. I'll make you bean and rabbit stew when you're better. Merlin. Merlin, I need you to remember the garden, and rabbits in Ealdor. And the lake."

She coughs, and drinks a little water. Arthur looks at her bloodied, tear-streaked face. Impossible to know what she looks like when she's cleaned up, but she's young and she obviously cares about Merlin. This isn't the druid seductress, half-beauty and half-monster, he'd steeled himself to fight; it's just a frightened, weary girl. Not a lady, despite the fine gown, which he can see now is shabby and worn, quite unsuitable for travel. He wonders about her and Merlin. How intimate are they? Did she seduce him?

When he looks at her face again, her eyes are fixed on him.

"I'm going to get some more water," she says, her voice hoarse with overuse. "Please, could you talk to him while I'm gone?"

So Arthur does. He talks to Merlin about the things they've done together: riding to save Guinevere; the unicorn and the labyrinth; Lancelot and the gryphon. He reminds Merlin of the cup of poison and the snakes in the shield. He tells Merlin he can't wait to get him back to Ealdor, to see his mother, because it's been far too long and he bets Merlin never writes. He reminds Merlin that there is still a pile of armour waiting to be polished and that he owes Gaius an apology for leaving without a word or a note. He tells Merlin that the stocks are far too empty and that he'd better be ready for them because Arthur is very disgruntled at having been forced to chase his manservant down just to recover the two very fine horses he'd appropriated from the royal stables. And he asks Merlin how on earth he knew anything about this Isle of the Blessed anyway.

"It was where he came to save you," says Freya. She'd come back partway through Arthur's monologue, but he was in full flow and he'd decided she could probably do with resting her voice.

"To save me?" Arthur can't have heard her correctly.

"When you were dying. Were you not with him when he came here?"

Arthur feels as if any certainty he's ever felt in his life is being drained from him through many very small pinholes.

"I'm sorry. He said his friend was dying from a magical beast. I thought - I was sure he said Arthur. Maybe I was wrong."

"The Questing Beast," says Arthur slowly, remembering. Remembering the people already in mourning for him when he awoke, his father's joy and incredulity; remembering Merlin's strange little speech and his eyes shining in the dancing candlelight. A wave of distilled clarity rolls over him and he laughs suddenly and tightens his arms around Merlin, gathering him in.

"It was you?" asks Freya.

"It was me," says Arthur. "Merlin, you idiot. I'm supposed to be the hero. You need to wake up so I can tell you what an idiot you are." He punctuates it with a little shake, but he's still laughing, incredulity bubbling rich and heady in his veins. Freya looks at him, and smiles, puzzled but pleased, taking Merlin's hand again.

"He's cooled down quite a lot," she says. "I think the worst is over."

***  
***

Towards dawn Merlin falls into a deep, quiet sleep. His breathing is low and steady, the red streaks have faded completely from his skin and while he's still too warm, he doesn't feel unnaturally heated. Arthur shifts for almost the first time all night. Freya doesn't know how he's managed so far; his legs must be numb, with Merlin draped heavily over them. She's fascinated by the way Arthur touches Merlin; there's an unthinking familiarity and a kind of possessiveness there, which she usually sees, only directed at a child or a lover. Merlin is not the first and she doesn't think he's the second, although she's become curious about that over the course of the night. From Arthur's words to Merlin she's learned that Merlin is Arthur's servant, and that Arthur is not just a knight but a noble of high status. Very high status, since Merlin apparently has access to the royal stables. Or had access, since he won't be able to go back now except under arrest for horse-stealing. She's astonished at how much Merlin's given up for her sake, evidently even more than she'd guessed.

"I think you can let him go now," she says. When Arthur looks up, she clarifies, "I think it's over. He's asleep, properly asleep, now."

"How can you be sure?" asks Arthur. Both of them are hoarse from the long night.

"He's fast asleep. He'll sleep for a long time now. It used to take me that way, when it was my curse."

Arthur scans her face, and then Merlin's, for a long moment before he nods, apparently satisfied, and bends forward to roll Merlin off his legs. Freya helps. Together they get Merlin onto a bedroll and under a blanket, his head pillowed on a second blanket. Freya watches as Arthur puts the back of his hand to Merlin's cheek, testing the temperature of his skin; the movement is designed to look careless but it's curiously tender.

Arthur glances at her face and says, "You should sleep too. While you can."

Freya shakes her head. She's too jumpy to sleep; the after-effects of pain and fearful alertness are still coursing through her. She's sore where Merlin hit her and feels slightly ill, her head buzzing as if it's full of bees. Arthur shrugs.

"Well, if you don't want to sleep, can you tell me what happened?"

"What do you mean?" asks Freya warily.

"How you came to be here. How you met Merlin. The curse."

Freya hesitates. She doesn't know whether Arthur is the one other person who knows about Merlin's magic; she suspects he probably is, since they seem so close, but she can't be sure.

Arthur sees her hesitation. "I won't be angry with him," he promises. "I just - I've been worried. And," he adds, growing brasher, the flash of vulnerability disappearing, "he stole my horses. And he didn't even tell us. Gaius - I have a right to know."

So Freya tells him, beginning with the curse. She watches his face as she talks, her voice barely rising above a whisper. He looks so calm. He doesn't seem shocked to learn that she'd killed a man even before her curse - of course, she thinks, he's a knight, he would know about such things - but his lips tighten when she tells him about the sorceress.

His face is so still and strong that she finds herself telling him the things she's never told anyone else, that she would never tell Merlin. She tells him about waking up beside the bloodied bodies of her family; about crawling through her mother's blood to cradle her still body and scream; about the villagers who'd shrieked and thrown stones, chasing her from the only home she had ever known. She tells him about the times she's tried to end her own life, only to collapse sobbing, useless and impotent because she physically could not force herself to take the final step. She tells him about the Druids and their distress at not being able to assist her; her flight towards the less heavily populated west country; betrayal and Halig's brutal treatment of her. She tells him about huddling in chains in a caged wagon, soaked through and so cold that she thought she would die soon and welcomed the thought.

When she comes to talk about Camelot, she invents and misrepresents; a drunken Halig, weakened chains, Merlin equipped with tools and cunning. She tells Arthur about her intention to escape, Merlin's unexpected return, their hurried flight and the long and weary journey.

"But I don't understand," Arthur interrupts. "How did you keep from killing him?"

This is the question Freya has dreaded, because she hasn't been able to think of a convincing explanation.

"I don't remember. I never remember what happens, when it comes upon me. I think he must have knocked me out somehow."

"Knocked you out?" Arthur snorts. "I mean, really. All right, he knocked me out once, but still - I can't imagine Merlin hitting a girl."

He doesn't know about the magic then, Freya thinks, and is flooded with thankfulness that she'd had the presence of mind to not mention it in the hours she'd talked and wept and held Merlin's hand while his moans filled the world.

"I know," says Arthur suddenly. "Gaius has this potion, this knock-out potion. It puts you to sleep. My father had him use it on me once. Merlin must have taken some and drugged you."

"That must be it," Freya agrees.

She doesn't tell him anything special about their time in the cottage. That is for her and Merlin alone. She explains that Merlin had remembered the Isle of the Blessed, and tells him that a priestess had met them and helped. She doesn't tell him what the priestess said.

"And then I woke up and he was - like you saw. And then you came."

Arthur sighs. Freya sees his thumb sweep over the back of Merlin's hand, absentmindedly, as if he doesn't realise he's doing it.

"Thank you," says Freya. "Thank you for helping him. I don't think I could have helped him on my own."

"I'm sure you could have," says Arthur. "I've seen people do extraordinary things, when they were pushed."

They sit silent for a few minutes as the sky lightens.

"It sounds like a rubbish sort of curse, though," says Arthur. "I mean, what was she thinking? It's not as if it was going to bring her son back. All she was doing was bringing more pain and misery into the world."

"I think," said Freya slowly, "that she had lost someone she loved, very much. And she was in so much pain, because of that, that she didn't care about anything else. All she felt was the pain. And she wanted to - spread it around. Share it. Because she couldn't end it."

Arthur looks at her, and Freya looks back at him. Merlin breathes steadily and deeply between them.

"Sun's rising," says Arthur.

Freya turns her head to look. The sun is a pale coin on the horizon. She draws a startled breath.

"What?" asks Arthur.

"This is the first sunrise I've seen since I was cursed," Freya tells him.

They watch as the sky burns into extraordinary colour.

***

***

A tiny thread of light tickles Merlin. He grasps it with both hands, tugs, laboriously climbs along it in a slow painful return to consciousness, and then wishes he hadn't. His muscles ache terribly, more than they had at harvest time in Ealdor or after a heavy session of training with Arthur; it feels as if he's walked a long way dragging a boulder behind him. Even his skin hurts, tender and prickling, as if it's stretched too tight over his bones, and his head aches terribly. When he moves to put a hand to his temple he becomes aware of what feels like a hundred scrapes and bruises; he winces, wanting to burrow back down into warmth and peace, but sleep has already retreated too far for him to chase it.

He wouldn't have thought it possible, but his mouth tastes almost as bad as Gaius' troll potion. He grimaces.

"Ah, Merlin," says a familiar voice. "About time."

Merlin blinks, wondering if his mind is playing tricks on him. Arthur, he tries to say, but his mouth is dry and feels clogged and it comes out as "Ahh-kkk".

A hand cushions his head, lifting it gently, and the mouth of a waterskin is held to his lips. He gulps gratefully, spits to one side, gulps again. The arm attached to the hand slides under his shoulders and helps him sit upright, supporting him against something reassuringly solid and real. He cracks open gummy eyelids and tries to focus. Yes, that is Arthur's arm, and it's Arthur's face he sees when he turns his head.

"Arthur?" he manages to get out.

"I thought you were going to sleep all day," says Arthur. "I suppose that would be in keeping with your character."

Merlin blinks, looking around. Panic suddenly hits him.

"Where's Freya?"

Arthur's eyes scan his face keenly.

"Don't worry. She's fine."

"But where is she?"

"She's bathing."

"Bathing?"

"Yes, Merlin, bathing. It's something people of good character do to ensure that their presence is not objectionable to others." Arthur glances away as if looking for Freya's return before adding offhandedly, "And besides, you were sick on her."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

"Well," Arthur shrugs. "It could've been worse. You could've been sick on me."

Merlin frowns and shakes his head, wincing as it awakens yet more aches. His head feels swollen and stuffed with straw, and he's just beginning to come to terms with the fact that Arthur is here. Arthur has somehow come upon them - how? - while Merlin was unconscious, and Merlin has no idea how much Arthur has seen, what Freya has said to him, what he knows.

"Arthur, what - what are you doing here?"

Arthur shrugs and Merlin feels the ripple of muscles beneath his shoulders. "I fancied a jaunt to the country. What do you think I'm doing here, you idiot? You left - you deserted your post - without a word or a note or a letter. Even to Gaius. Gaius, Merlin! And he thought you were in danger. He's been so worried. That wasn't just irresponsible of you, Merlin, it was cruel."

Arthur's body is vibrating slightly; Merlin closes his eyes so that he doesn't have to see the anger and bitterness on his face.

"I'm sorry, Arthur, I'm so sorry, I - there wasn't time. There wasn't time, I couldn't tell you. Gaius was going to-" he breaks off, uncertain of how much Arthur knows.

"Gaius was going to tell my father that your friend was in fact responsible for the death of several innocent citizens. Yes, I know."

"It wasn't her fault," whispers Merlin. He struggles to sit up, but his muscles feel like water, and everything hurts. Arthur loops his other arm around Merlin's torso, holding him firm. "Arthur, she's - she was cursed. She's just a girl. She didn't mean to do it. Please don't -"

"Don't what? Don't blame her? Don't blame you?"

"Don't punish her."

Arthur sighs. "I'm not going to punish her."

Merlin sags in relief. A wave of dizziness rolls over him and sucks him down; his head lolls onto Arthur's shoulder. He can feel Arthur's breath ruffling his hair, intimate and warm.

"I'm not going to punish you either. Even though horse-stealing is a very serious offense. You could be executed. But Gaius seems to retain some lingering affection for you; can't have him fretting away and becoming useless. And I suppose your mother would be upset."

"Thank you," says Merlin, eyes closed. Arthur makes no sound in response, but Merlin feels him let out a long breath and loosen with it. They rest there for a moment, cushioned against one another. Merlin feels warm and stupidly happy with Arthur solid against him; his nose is almost touching Arthur's neck, and he breathes the scent of metal, sweat and skin.

"How did you find us?" asks Merlin eventually.

"You're lucky I did find you. Honestly, Merlin. You mismanaged the whole thing, as usual."

"But -"

"Merlin!" Merlin opens his eyes; Freya is coming towards them, back in her old ragged robe, her arms full of sodden velvet. She drops the damp gown on the grass, hurrying to kneel before Arthur and Merlin. "Thank you," she says. Her cheeks are pink and her eyes are shining. Merlin has never seen her look so happy. His heart swells with pride and tenderness almost too much for him to bear, but he cannot speak. He tries to smile and then chokes on what he thinks is a sob but becomes a gulp of laughter, and then he laughs with astonishment and joy, Arthur solid against his side and Freya blessing him with the shy tendrils of her smile.

***

Merlin soon falls asleep again, his eyes fluttering closed and his head drooping to one side. Arthur guides his head gently down to the ground and arranges his blankets, smiling despite his irritation. It's obvious that Merlin isn't capable of getting anywhere under his own steam yet, and anyway the day is advanced enough that it's too late to make a decent start. That leaves Arthur at a loss. It’s rare that he doesn't have something to do, and even rarer that he wishes he did. He's restless and jittery, and it's only now that Merlin's asleep again that he realises how much he wants him to wake up.

When he looks up Arthur sees Freya watching him; he realises with a start that his hand is still on Merlin's head, stirring his hair with one idle finger. Freya reaches out and pats the blanket down over Merlin's chest, her touch gentle but impartial. Arthur has come to terms with the fact that she doesn't fit the image of seductive enchantress he's carried with him on his quest for Merlin, but he's puzzled by the lack of possessive tenderness in her touch. It seems that she's touching Merlin more like a friend than a lover; but surely, he thinks, they have been lovers. Everything Gaius said, everything Arthur himself knows, points to that. Suddenly he can see them in his mind's eye, pale limbs entwined, Merlin's lips parted, Freya's hand on his face. He shakes his head, blinking, overcome by a stab of strange feeling which he doesn't care to examine too closely.

When he looks at Freya again, a thought occurs to him.

"May I ask what your plans are for the future?" he asks.

Freya looks surprised. "The future?"

"When Merlin wakes up. Presumably you're not going to stay here." Arthur gestures at the trees around them. "Do you have - is there any family left to you?"

"Not any more," says Freya, sadness in her eyes.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry. It wasn't your doing."

There is a pause.

"You'll go back to Camelot?" asks Freya.

"As soon as possible. But if you need to be escorted somewhere -"

"And Merlin?"

Arthur hesitates. "I hope he'll want to come with me. I believe he will."

"And he's not going to get in trouble?"

Arthur frowns.

"For the horses," Freya clarifies.

"Ah. No." Arthur hasn't thought much about what laws and rules and promises Merlin has broken. "No. I'll make sure of it."

He remembers the feel of Merlin's head, weighty and hard on his shoulder, and Merlin's hot thin body against his; it felt right, as if everything in a scattered and uneven world had settled back into its proper place. He's beginning to realise that he's already sacrificed a lot to keep that feeling, and he's willing to sacrifice even more.

"You could come with us," he offers. "Make Camelot your home too."

Freya smiles; it's not without a little sadness, but it reaches her eyes and they sparkle. Her face is more animated than Arthur's ever seen it before, mischief hovering at the corners of her mouth. Arthur can suddenly understand what Merlin sees in her.

"What would I do in Camelot?" she asks.

"Whatever you want to. You could work in the castle. A maid perhaps. Or a seamstress or laundress. Cook, can you cook? They always need help in the kitchens. We can find a place for you, whatever skills you possess." Arthur clears his throat, wondering why he's finding it so hard to get to his next point. "Ah, Merlin works for me. He lives with the court physician, currently, but there's nothing to stop him - well. We don't place restrictions on our servants' personal lives. If he were to come to me - in the future - and ask my permission to, well, to move to his own quarters, or to marry - "

He stops, embarrassed. Freya smiles, a wider and happier smile than he's seen from her yet, but he realises with alarm that there are tears in her eyes.

"It's very kind of you," she says. "Thank you. I don't know yet what I will do. I didn't - well, I never thought I would have anything but running. I thought I was going to die."

Arthur shrugs to cover his embarrassment. Battles are easy; gratitude is too much to bear. He puts his hands on his thighs, presses them close to ground himself and stands up. It's just come to him that there is something else he can channel his energy into while Merlin sleeps.

***

Arthur examines their combined food stores, pronounces them inadequate, and strides away in search of prey.

Freya watches him go, wondering. She's never spent any time with the kind of people who have servants - nor, for that matter, with anyone who served in a great household except for Merlin himself - but she's heard and assumed how the relationship between master and servant might work. What she sees between Arthur and Merlin is, however, nothing like the hearsay or her own imaginings. There is something so fitting there, as if they belong together, breath and bone and talk and laughter spinning into one story.

She's glad that Arthur has gone; the comradeship that had flung them together in the urgency of night has departed and he's remote and formal with her, his words too carefully chosen. She needs to be alone with her thoughts and the new tide of wellbeing that has been welling up within her, a great benevolent sweep of astounded joy which constantly threatens to overwhelm her with emotion until she fears she'll laugh or weep or shout aloud. Or go mad from the knowledge of the blood on her hands. Does she deserve joy, after tearing apart so many lives?

She has had no choice in her life until now. As a child in the heart of a family she hadn't needed it, as a frightened girl raising her hands against an attacker, she hadn't felt it, and as a terrified fugitive hating herself, it was lost to her. As a prisoner huddled in Halig's cage she had almost welcomed the death she knew awaited her; the ultimate removal of choice, it also removed the illusion that she had any. Once captured, there was no more hope; all she needed to do was endure. And then Merlin came.

When Freya looks down at him, he's curled up loosely, his face calm. Such a unlikely vessel, she thinks, for all the power he contains.

She stretches out on the grass close beside him, gazing up at the tattered clouds and thinking. Merlin mutters something and turns over, seeking her in sleep although she hasn't touched him. He stretches out an arm, wriggles closer and tucks his face into the curve of her shoulder. The intimacy of his warm breath on her neck is almost too much to bear. He has given her so much and asked for almost nothing; he would give her more if she asked it. If she were to wish it, he would take her to Camelot and look after her and love her forever. But he'll have to be in love enough for both of us, Freya thinks. I've forgotten how.

Camelot. Arthur had offered her the idea, deliberately casual but with an innate reverence, as if Camelot were a precious jewel or a glistening succulent fruit. Freya knows, though, that Camelot is a place where a curse is a crime and where even Merlin, who wants nothing but joy for everyone, must hide his true nature or risk death.

Camelot cannot be her home, but it's Arthur's, and that means that it's Merlin's. And while there is the little cottage so far away, the thought of returning there without Merlin is suddenly stale and thin.

There are no bars around her now, but there is the prison of memory, and that's something she cannot escape.

 

***  
***

When Merlin wakes next, the sky has darkened to the colour of a bruise and he can smell food cooking. He's still sore but his muscles feel looser and more relaxed; he shifts slightly under his blankets, rolls onto one side and raises his head to blink at the fire's orange glow. Arthur and Freya are sitting by the fire, the latter stirring something in their small pot while the former pokes holes in the ground with his knife, twisting the point vigorously into the grass.

“He's awake, Freya,” says Arthur, although Merlin hadn’t seen him glance over. “Told you he'd stir himself for food.”

Freya smiles, her hair falling over her face as she ducks her head. She fills a small wooden bowl with something from the pot and comes over to Merlin. “Do you think you could eat something?” she asks.

“Oh, yes,” says Merlin fervently, causing Arthur to laugh. The stew is not much, rabbit and dried peas with no seasoning, but it’s hot and filling and Merlin feels as though he hasn’t eaten for days. Perhaps he hasn’t.

“How long have I been asleep?” he asks.

“Too long,” says Arthur.

“Most of the day,” says Freya at the same time. She is still smiling, but now she’s closer Merlin can see that her smile is tinged with sadness.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

“Nothing’s wrong,” says Freya. “I’m glad you’re awake. Do you feel better?”

“Much,” says Merlin, filling his mouth with stew. It’s too hot and he burns his tongue, yelping slightly and making Arthur laugh again. Freya offers him a waterskin.

“Thanks,” says Merlin, gulping again.

“When you’ve finished filling your belly,” says Arthur, “you need to get back onto your feet. You can get up and walk about with me for a bit.”

Filling Merlin’s belly takes a short time even by Merlin’s normal standard, and soon he’s walking a little stiffly but steadily towards the lake at Arthur’s side. It’s almost dark; Arthur carries a burning branch, which casts strange lights and shadows over his face. They separate a little and turn their backs on one another to answer the call of nature, and then walk right up to the shore of the lake. It’s as dark and mist-shrouded as Merlin remembers; Arthur holds the burning branch out towards the water, and Merlin sees the mist swirl like steam, floating on invisible air currents and making ragged shapes over the lake's surface. He shudders, remembering the pain of the night before, and before that the desperation of thunder and Gaius and Nimueh.

"If I were to go out there now, do you think I would find anybody there?" asks Arthur conversationally.

"On the lake?"

"On the island," says Arthur. "There's no point lying. Freya told me that's where you went to cure her."

Merlin's entire body is suffused with a wave of prickling heat, almost painful; his heart feels as if it's seized up. He knows that guilt and uncertainty is clear on his face, and becoming clearer with every second while he tries frantically to think of something to say.

"It's all right," Arthur's voice is very calm, which can be a dangerous sign. "I'm not going to punish you. I know you've been here before. For me. But I want to know how you found it. What the place is like. This is still part of the kingdom after all -"

"The lake might be, but I don't think the Isle belongs to any kingdom," answers Merlin, very low, looking out at dark the water. "I don't think you'd even find it. I think you'd just go round and round."

Arthur turns smartly on his heel and puts his hands on Merlin's shoulders, swivelling him so they're facing each other. Merlin senses that Arthur is scanning his face, but he doesn't dare look up. Everything is still.

"You found it," says Arthur.

"Yes," says Merlin softly.

"Surely if you could find it, I can too."

"I think they need to let you find it," says Merlin. "I think they need to trust you. And you need to be looking for help. It's got to be really important, you've got to have a lot at stake."

"And you had a lot at stake?"

Merlin takes a deep breath and looks up at Arthur; looks at him properly, with full and open face.

"Yes," he whispers. "Both times."

The space between them trembles. There is no sound for a long time.

"I'm going back to Camelot," says Arthur.

"Of course," says Merlin.

"I would prefer it if you were to come with me."

Merlin hesitates. He can feel the blood-heat seeping into his shoulders underneath Arthur's hands.

"Before you answer," says Arthur slowly, "I must tell you that I have offered Freya sanctuary in Camelot. No-one will know who she is. We can find a convenient tale to explain her."

"You would do that?" asks Merlin. "And she won't - you won't punish her?"

"You have my word," says Arthur.

"And Freya wants to come?"

Arthur shifts uncomfortably, looking away for the first time.

"She has not yet given me an answer."

"Then I need to ask her," says Merlin. "I'm not going anywhere without her. I need to look after her now."

Arthur's face is shuttered again. "Of course."

***

***

Freya hears Merlin and Arthur approaching and takes a deep breath, willing herself to be strong. It's difficult; she can see in Arthur's face what he intends to say, and in Merlin's what he wants, and she knows this will not be easy for any of them.

“We need to talk,” says Arthur, as soon as he and Merlin have settled by the fire. Freya lifts her face. It's been peaceful by the fire, gazing into the flames, the crackle and pop of the fire the only thing she could hear.

“Tomorrow morning, I shall return to Camelot,” says Arthur. “I will be taking the horses that Merlin stole," raising an eyebrow, "and returning them to the royal stables. I will tell the King that I have uncovered a horse-stealing gang, grown audacious enough to commit theft from the castle. My manservant spotted some suspicious strangers entering the stables and foolishly, recklessly, thoughtlessly,” he glares at Merlin, “followed them on a lesser mount. He was absent from the castle for some days in a misguided attempt to apprehend them. It is no thanks to him that I was eventually able to track down the miscreants and deal with them.”

“What about Freya?” asks Merlin.

“Keep up, Merlin. I was tracking horse thieves and dealing with a series of magical attacks on the people of Camelot which were committed by an unknown assailant. Even I couldn’t go hunting for an escaped prisoner as well. I’m afraid that the Druid girl is long gone by now, probably back towards her home. In fact, Halig has already departed to search for her there.”

Freya flinches at the mention of the magical attacks, causing Merlin to frown accusingly at Arthur and move himself a little closer to her. Arthur returns his gaze steadily.

“So the only thing that remains,” continues Arthur, “is for a decision to be made. Two decisions, actually. One is contingent upon the other.”

Freya waits, composed, knowing what is coming.

“Freya. If you come back to Camelot, no harm or blame will fall upon you. That is a promise. We can tell a tale of your origins, and nobody will question it. Merlin’s childhood sweetheart, perhaps. ”

“And then?” asks Freya.

Arthur shrugs. “That is up to you.”

There is a long silence. The three of them sit around the fire, not looking at one another. Merlin’s shoulder is almost touching Freya’s. Arthur looks at nothing and sits as still as stone. Freya looks into the fire, her hair shifting slightly in the soft evening breeze, trying to find the right words; words which will help, will explain, and will not hurt. In the end there is nothing she can do to soften the starkness of her response.

“I am very grateful for your offer,” she says, “but I will not be going with you.”

Merlin's voice is eager and hopeful as he says, "Freya, it'll be all right. You'll be safe in Camelot. Nobody will hurt you, I promise – “

“Merlin,” Freya interrupts him. “I can’t go to Camelot. I couldn't live there. There's -"

She hesitates. She can't say there's nothing for me there without hurting him immeasurably, and that's something she will not do, but she needs him to understand.

"There are too many bad memories there for me."

"Then we'll make new memories, better ones," Merlin insists.

"No, Merlin, I can't."

"Freya, please!" His voice is rising.

“Excuse me,” says Arthur. “I need to see to the horses.” He’s on his feet and into the darkness beyond the fire.

"I don't understand," says Merlin, and she hears it in his voice.

"Merlin, I hurt people there. Killed them. The blood of Camelot's people is on my hands. I cannot return. Every person I passed in the street, I would be wondering - was it your husband I killed? Your brother? Your daughter? I couldn't bear it."

Merlin's face softens, and she can see him relax a little although the line of his spine is still stiff.

"Then we'll go back to the cottage."

"Oh, Merlin," says Freya gently. "The cottage - that was wonderful. It was like a dream." She takes his hands, feeling them hot and trembling in her grasp. "I loved being there. I loved spending time with you. But that time is over now. I don't belong there without you, and you - you need to go back to Camelot."

"What? But you - how can I if you -"

"You need to go back to Camelot. You must be at Arthur's side. That is where you belong."

"But I belong with you!"

The desperation in his voice beats on the boards of her heart. She badly wants to pull his head onto her shoulder and tell him everything will be all right and she’ll come. His face is so stricken. He disentangles his hands from hers and reaches to gently touch her face. She doesn't stop him - touching is part of Merlin's language - but it hurts that she must hold back from him.

"Merlin, please," she says softly.

"If you can't come to Camelot, then come with me to Ealdor. My mother - "

"Merlin."

"Why won't you come with me? I can protect you. I can make you happy."

"No," says Freya gently, and this is her chance. "You can't make me happy. I have done so much wrong - "

"But it wasn't your fault!"

"But I did it. There are so many deaths on my conscience. I feel them so much -"

She feels her control breaking, tears filling her eyes.

"I need to find peace. I need to make peace with myself. And that is my battle, not yours, and I must fight it alone."

Merlin's voice wavers. "Where will you go, then? Back to the Druids?"

"No," says Freya. "I'm going to the Isle of the Blessed."

"What?" Merlin rears back, startled.

"They helped me," says Freya gently. "I want to learn how to do that. How to help. And I think - I think it is a place where I can find peace."

There is a long moment of silence.

"Then we need to say goodbye," says Merlin finally, his voice shaking.

"It won't be forever," says Freya softly. "I promise."

They sit together watching the fire. The largest log shifts; molten sap wells from it like tears.

***  
***

Arthur takes himself far enough from the fire that he can't see Merlin and Freya or hear what they are saying, but it's easy to tell what the outcome of their discussion has been when he returns. Merlin sits hunched by the fire, his face set; Freya is huddled in her blanket nearby. As he settles into his own blanket Arthur wonders whether she's really asleep, or whether she's being kept awake by the knowledge of Merlin's unhappiness, can feel it in the same way he can; a pressure that's not quite painful, like a finger pressing skin almost hard enough to bruise.

In the morning he busies himself packing, loading up the horses and checking them carefully over for swellings and sores. He'd thought to give Merlin and Freya some time alone to say goodbye, and is surprised when Freya appears at his side as he's shaking out his blanket.

"Let me," she says, but instead of taking the whole blanket from him she takes the two far corners, opposite to those he's holding, and walks toward him, the motion folding the blanket in two. Arthur accepts the two corners she hands him and watches as she picks up the new ones formed by the blanket's fold; retreat, fold, approach. It's a neater method than he could manage on his own; he supposes this is how the maids manage to get those neat stacks of sheets they carry through the corridors. Freya's fingers touch his, relinquishing the last two corners.

"I'm sorry I caused so much trouble for you," Freya says, breaking the silence. "I hope to be a help to you instead one day."

Arthur can't think how that could happen; there is nothing that this weary-eyed girl could possibly ever have to offer the throne of Camelot. Even now, although he's relieved that her decision not to return means he won't have to lie much more than he already has done, she's leaving him with a miserable manservant and six fewer people in his kingdom, people he should have protected. The thought makes him grit his teeth.

He realises that she's still waiting for a response, but he can't think of anything to say that wouldn't be either dishonest or needlessly cruel. He looks down at Freya's tender mouth and soft eyes and sighs inwardly, forcing his anger to dissolve. It's not her fault; she is as much a victim of magic as the people she'd killed in beast form. He should be saving his anger up for the witch who'd cursed her.

He hears himself say, "You shouldn't go."

"Why not?" asks Freya.

"From what you and Merlin have said, the island is - wrong. A place steeped in magic. You've seen what magic can do. Magic made you kill those people. Magic nearly destroyed you."

"And it saved me too," says Freya.

"It almost destroyed Merlin."

Freya is silent, looking down for a moment; then she lifts her face and looks at him, quietly defiant.

"You must look after him," she says.

"Of course. God knows he needs it."

She smiles, dark eyes shining, and gives him her hand. Her bones are light, like a bird's, with barely enough flesh covering them.

"I can't persuade you to come back with me, and help me look after him?" Arthur tries.

Freya shakes her head. "I want to find out what good they can do. I want to right some of the wrongs that I have done."

"Using magic, more magic? How can that be wise?"

"I don't know if it is. But I know now that what harms can also heal. Like a plant, like foxglove; too much can kill, but a little at the right time can prevent death. Or like a - an axe. You can use it to cut firewood or to kill an enemy - "

"You can't compare it to either of those things. Magic corrupts. Even the purest soul can fall prey to temptation. I've seen the evils of magic first hand - "

"As have I," says Freya quietly.

"And I've never seen any good come from any magic user."

"Have you ever given them the chance?"

Her words are quiet, but they seem to leave an echo, clear and pure like the sound of a bell. Arthur has no answer for her. He bows his head over her hand and kisses it, and then lets it go.

***  
***

Merlin and Freya stand by the unearthly lake and don't look at one another. Arthur has left them to say their goodbyes alone, and Freya is grateful. Now that the moment has come, though, she cannot think of anything to say. No words will be enough to thank him, to tell him what his love and strength and hope have meant to her; and she fears the words which might come from his lips. If he says too much, she will shatter.

Merlin breaks the silence.

"You won't change your mind?" Even now his face is tinged with hope, but his voice is tight as if there is something in his throat.

"No," says Freya softly. She looks at him, drinking the sight of him in; the narrow shoulders, the limbs stiff with inner pain, the emotion showing in mottled colour high on his cheeks. His eyes are a liquid blur. She knows that she will never see him like this again; next time he will be someone different, someone extraordinary, but not hers.

"You are going to do wonderful things," she tells him, "and you need to be in Camelot to do them. And I can't follow you there."

"Not yet," says Merlin, still clinging to hope. "But one day?"

"One day we will meet again," Freya promises him, and knows it is true. "But now you belong with Arthur."

"With Arthur?" A tiny wrinkle appears between Merlin's eyebrows.

"I knew it the moment he came, when he touched you and spoke to you," says Freya, and it's true, although she hadn't realised it until now. She smiles, feeling the tears well up in her eyes. His image is blurring. "When we see each other again, you'll be able to tell me all your adventures. And I'll tell you mine."

His voice breaks as he says, "I will miss you."

"I'll miss you too," Freya says softly. "So much."

She steps forward and embraces him, putting her face into his shoulder, feeling the beat of his heart and his breath on her hair. They cling together for a long time, swaying. Freya brushes tears from her face as she steps back.

Merlin puts something warm and smooth into her hand, folding her fingers around it. Freya opens her hand to look. It's the bone comb, its dragons arched as proudly as ever.

"Merlin -"

"Please, I want you to have it," says Merlin. "It's yours. I bought it for you."

"I wish I had something to give you," says Freya. "You've given me so much and I haven't given you anything."

Merlin offers her a watery smile. "That's what you think."

 

***  
***

Merlin watches the mists for a long time after the boat has vanished from view, keeping his breathing steady, quieting his mind and trying not to think. The mists drift aimlessly when there's a breeze, and hang like curtains when there isn't. Even when they're still, Merlin fancies that he sees them tremble slightly, as if they want to draw back and reveal the island to him. The mists deaden the air, and there is no sound but the dull slapping of water against the rickety pier.

When Merlin gets back to the camp, Arthur is leaning against a tree, twirling a knife between his fingers. As Merlin approaches, he pulls himself away from the tree and turns to his horse.

"You couldn't persuade her, then?" he asks.

"No," says Merlin dully. Arthur turns to face him, eyes scanning his face. Merlin stiffens; he knows that his eyelids are tender and puffy from crying, despite the time he's spent recovering by the lake. Arthur doesn't say anything, but gives a tiny nod and mounts Llamrei. Merlin suddenly feels a wave of fierce gratitude for his nonchalance.

"We'd better get going," Arthur says.

Leading one horse while riding another proves more difficult than Merlin had thought; their progress is slower than expected and when Arthur calls a halt he looks frustrated. They light a fire and eat a meagre meal of stringy leftover rabbit and hard, days-old bread. Merlin thinks of Freya hovering over the pot, pink-cheeked and attentive as she stirs, and clenches his teeth.

When he falls asleep he dreams of Freya as he last saw her, sitting very straight in the boat with a little bundle of possessions in her lap, not smiling but her face suffused with calm purpose. In his dream the sky darkens to night, but light glows all around Freya. Merlin calls to her and she lifts her hand as if to wave; but instead she is lifting the bone comb. As she draws it over her hair the dark strands stream with water, flowing down over her body, wetting her bedraggled gown to transparency. As the water pools at her feet it swirls into dark, unfathomable depths. The boat vanishes, her dress fades like mist, and she's walking lightly across the water as if it were grass. Just before her outstretched fingers touch Merlin's, she vanishes, leaving behind nothing but a rueful smile and a breath of disturbed air.

Merlin opens his eyes. The fire is down to sullenly glowing embers; he can smell damp air, green things growing, and smoke. Arthur is very close to him, leaning over and peering down at him in the dark; the embers make strange curves and shadows of his face.

"You were having a nightmare," says Arthur, his voice a little blurred with sleep.

Merlin closes his eyes again, seeking darkness and peace. Just as he slips away into darkness, he thinks he feels fingers gently stroking his hair.

***

On the final leg of the journey to Camelot, Merlin is pale and silent, and Arthur is troubled. He's seen this before; Merlin with something on his mind is generally withdrawn, but it's never been this bad before. Arthur's stomach oozes with sympathy every time he looks at Merlin's face.

Nevertheless, there are plans that must be agreed upon and firmed up. Arthur knows from his own experience that there's nothing better than attending to the practical details to take your mind off worry and misery.

"We should talk about our story," he announces.

"Our story?"

"Yes, Merlin, our story. The one we're going to tell the King and the stablemaster about the horses and your unexplained absence from Camelot."

"Oh." Merlin doesn't sound interested.

"Oh? Merlin, you're going to have to know what to say. Pay attention."

"But they'll believe you. They won't ask me."

"Don't be ridiculous. You're going to have to back me up. My father will want to know everything you can tell him about the horse thieves, and you can't say you've had a bag over your head for the past few weeks."

"Yes, I can."

"Merlin!"

"Yes, Arthur," says Merlin, the faintest tinge of a smile in his tone. "Am I in trouble?"

Arthur scoffs, although his heart leaps ridiculously at the lift in Merlin's voice. "Of course you are. You have a lot of explaining to do, particularly to Gaius. Honestly, Merlin; you can't treat him like that. He loves you."

"And you?" asks Merlin.

"Well, I -"

Arthur falters. He'd intended to say, lightheartedly, Well, I certainly don't love you; but the words stick in his throat and he's suddenly sure that they're not true.

For a moment he is terrified; it's as if the world has fallen apart and reforms itself almost exactly as before, but with a different scent, a strange quality to the air. It happens in a breath, in a pulse, and he knows with absolute certainty that everything has changed. He swallows hard and folds this strange new knowledge away, to take out and examine later, when he's by himself. They still have planning to do, and putting feelings aside to deal with practical matters is a soldier's job and a prince's duty.

He realises that Merlin is still waiting for an answer.

"You'll have some explaining to do to Gaius. But not about the horses. Or the other stealing. I think it’s very clear that when you took those actions you were… not yourself."

"Not myself?" Merlin turns a face to him that Arthur's never seen before; the faint humour of a moment ago has sparked into anger and scorn. "You don't know what you're talking about, Arthur. When I took Freya out of Camelot, I was more myself than I’ve ever been in my life before!"

"You were distressed at her imprisonment and eager to help a pretty girl. Any foolish young man would do the same."

"But –"

Arthur's head is beginning to ache.

"Merlin. Don't make it harder for me to find excuses not to blame you."

Merlin's face is still again as if he's slammed a shutter. "Yes, sire."

***

When they ride into Camelot Arthur's struck almost physically by the flurry of people and activity; after the quiet time spent in the still forest and by the eerie lake, Camelot's bustle and surge swallow him in welcome. After handing the horses over to the care of the stableboys, Arthur and Merlin climb heavily up the stairs to report to the King. Arthur infuses his voice with confidence and just the right touch of amused contempt about Merlin's attempt at thief-tracking, and it works; Merlin is required to do no more than stammer a few brief words confirming Arthur's story before they are both dismissed. Arthur feels almost cheated that he's got away with so much deception so effortlessly.

Gaius meets them in the corridor, his face sagging with emotion and his arms out in welcome; Arthur leaves Merlin with him and goes to report to the stablemaster, discussing how the nonexistent horse thieves may have gained access and ideas to ensure prevention of future crimes. Then there is an interminable dinner with his father and Morgana, during which Uther updates Arthur on everything that's happened during his brief absence. Arthur sits patiently, nods in all the right places and drinks perhaps a little more than he normally would. He knows he should appreciate that his father trusts and relies on him so much that he needs to go into every detail of every state matter, but his stomach is a little hollow despite the goodness of the food. His father had shown so little interest in Arthur's own journey; his son has triumphed against wrongdoers, as he always does, as he is expected to do, and there is nothing remarkable to say. It's not new and Arthur should be used to it by now; but while Uther talks of tax concessions, Arthur remembers Merlin folded into Gaius' long, wordless embrace, and feels a little cold.

When he finally gets to his own chambers after what seems a very long evening, Merlin is there, his face tight with controlled emotion. He glances up at Arthur's entrance, and goes without a word to turn the bed down in preparation for sleep. Arthur looks at his taut shoulders and wants to touch them and stroke away the hurt that's evident there. He also badly wants to be alone, to think about everything that's happened and what he can do next; most of all he needs to think about Merlin, to poke at these strange new feelings which he's beginning to realise aren't new at all.

Aren't they? I mean, come on, it's Merlin. It's Merlin, six feet tall and too few pounds, no curves, all angles. It's Merlin, stumble-footed and fumble-mouthed, lacking proper courtly manners, his clothes hanging off him like a half-fallen banner.

It's Merlin, nimble-fingered, quick-witted, laughing-eyed. Merlin with his bright smiles, fond and freely bestowed. Merlin, who's drunk poison for him, who's stayed with him through harshness and suffering and sickness. Merlin, who talked him down from committing the unthinkable, who follows him everywhere, who somehow offers just the words he needs at the moments he needs them.

Merlin kneels before him, and Arthur starts; but all Merlin does is to help him get his boots off and then begin to divest him of his outer garments, silent all the while and not meeting his eyes.

"How'd you go with Gaius?" Arthur asks, trying to draw Merlin into conversation. "Has he forgiven you?"

"Yes," says Merlin. Nothing more.

Arthur hates this. Normally it's almost impossible to shut Merlin up.

"That's good," he offers. "Everything's gone very well."

He doesn't realise how it must sound until Merlin turns to him and says, low and dangerous, "What do you mean, it's gone well?"

"Well, we're all still alive. The people of Camelot are safe from attack. Freya has found a new home. And I've got back both my servant and my horses - "

He'd meant it lightly, jocularly, trying to sweeten the atmosphere between them; he's not prepared for the fury with which Merlin turns on him.

"Oh, and as long as you've got your possessions back, everything's all right, then, is it?"

"What?"

"You don't care. You didn't care that Freya was - You just wanted everything to be the same again. Did you say something to make her leave?"

"Merlin!" Arthur stops. He steps back and gets a proper look at Merlin, for the first time since he'd entered the room, and notes the chin held high and tight mouth. Anyone who didn't know him, looking at him now, would think him arrogant and angry, but there's a tiny quiver around the mouth that gives him away, and he's swaying slightly with exhaustion and pent-up emotion.

Arthur reaches to put a hand on Merlin's shoulder, schooling his voice to be steady and warm.

"I know you didn't mean that. You're tired. Why don't you go and get some rest? You'll feel back to normal in the morning."

He means to soothe, but as soon as the words are out of his mouth, he sees that they're all wrong. It's as if he's put spark to tinder. There's a moment of silence during which Arthur can feel the space between them vibrating with fury, and then Merlin's suddenly coming at him with a fist raised.

Oh, it's on. There's a moment of amusement - doesn't he know this never works with me? - and then Arthur's hand catches Merlin's fist and drags it down, twisting him smoothly around to hold his arm behind his back. He doesn't want to hurt him and a fall to the floor would be bone-jarring, so he shoves hard enough that Merlin goes stumbling onto the bed. Merlin rolls, trying to get enough of a hold to push himself up again, but Arthur follows him down and holds him onto the bed with the weight of his body, one forearm pressing Merlin's arms flat on the bed above his head. They lie here with chests heaving, fury sparking in Merlin's eyes while he struggles.

Arthur knows how to size up an opponent, and he knows Merlin is going to make a move almost before Merlin knows it himself. He's unprepared, however, when Merlin's face surges towards him; at first he thinks it'll be a head butt, but then Merlin's lips are on his, his tongue ruthlessly pushing against Arthur's closed lips. It's only a moment and then Merlin breaks away, his face triumphant and challenging and angry.

Arthur is used to letting his body do the work for him in a fight, but the way his body reacts to this particular tussle is unpredictable and thrilling. He's instantly hard, a shiver of liquid heat shimmering up his spine. The soles of his feet tingle, his gut flips, and then he's kissing Merlin again without even knowing which of them surged forward first.

It's good kissing, hot and fierce and thrilling, but each of them is alone. Arthur can feel that this isn't how it's meant to be. There's a lack of connection. He breaks away to ghost a gentle touch down Merlin's highboned cheeks. Merlin shivers, flinches away, tries to push upward to kiss him again, but Arthur won't let him. He brushes hair from Merlin's forehead, drops a quick kiss there, rubs his cheek in Merlin's soft hair and begins laying tender, gentle kisses all over Merlin's face, his nose and cheeks and the tip of his chin, until Merlin's cold eyes turn molten and luminous, and then he kisses the tears away before they can fall and then finally, finally, touches mouths and lets Merlin draw long slow kisses from him, lips and the tips of tongues turning deeper and deeper until they're both dizzy and gasping with it.

 

Merlin's adrift, but this time he needs it, clings to it. All day there's been a vile mixture of emotion boiling and roiling in his gut and the past few hours have brought it all to a head.

He misses Freya dreadfully. After so long alone except for her company, her absence feels like he's lost a finger or toe; it won't kill him, but it's painful and he can't stop noticing it. He can't help grieving for the life he'd dreamed of sharing with her; the two of them in peace, learning one another and coaxing harvest from the earth. He feels almost savage with loss.

Then there's guilt. Gaius had embraced him silently, with tears in his eyes; he seems to have aged several years in a few weeks. He'd asked a few gentle questions but without complaint, and Merlin feels his heart squeeze. Weeks ago, a soul-wringing lifetime ago, he'd seen Gaius only as a potential obstacle; Freya was gathered so fiercely into his heart that there was no room for anyone else. Now he sees what his absence has done; despite his evident joy at seeing Merlin again, Gaius is sad and subdued. Merlin realises as if for the first time that he's also old, his resilience stretched too thin. One day, not too distant, he knows he will find that Gaius cannot recover from this great a shock.

Most of all he's angry, thrumming with a cold rage he doesn't even try to calm. It's directed at Freya for leaving him despite what he's put himself through; at Arthur for finding them, prising open the world they had together and inserting himself within; anger at Uther, for creating the kind of world where a girl condemned by magic could not freely seek magical help. Most of all, he is bitterly angry at himself. For not being strong enough to save Freya by himself; for hurting her; for not being enough for her to love him and want to stay with him. For hurting Gaius. For needing Arthur's help.

When he lunges forward to kiss Arthur his mind is cloudy and he doesn't know what he wants, although somewhere in his mind he dimly expects Arthur to be shocked enough to retreat. When Arthur kisses him back, Merlin thinks that this is what he needs; something harsh and loud and grappling, bodies meeting, wiping his mind clean.

He expects Arthur to be as rough and mindless and desperate as he is himself, but he's not prepared for tenderness. Tenderness is something that belongs with Freya. Merlin remembers touching her, sinking into her, with a sense of wonder; her flesh was soft and welcoming, her murmurs sweet, her touch firm yet gentle. What he wants from Arthur is something different; a warrior's controlled strength and power, a fire to purge his grief. When Arthur begins to touch him with care, his calloused fingers leaving unexpected trails of sensation, Merlin thrusts and struggles. _Not this. Not this._ Who would have thought that such gentle touches could break down the high walls around his heart?

At last the feelings smash their way in, and Merlin feels himself softening and dissolving beneath Arthur's firm fingers and chapped lips. It's like being pulled through water; he lets Arthur steer him along, feeling the smooth drag and the rush. Gradually things become more urgent, and he begins rolling his hips steadily under the pressure of Arthur's delicious firmness, hearing the soft noises Arthur's making deep in his throat, and feeling Arthur's warmth and attention surrounding him. He feels loved and loving and wanted, and he's close... so close...

And then Arthur, the bastard, pulls away and sits up, putting one hand on Merlin's chest.

"Before we go on," says Arthur, somewhat breathlessly, "we need to have a talk."

"What?" Merlin struggles until he's propped up on his elbows.

"We need to get a few things clear."

" _Now_? How can you...?"

"It's called self-discipline, Merlin." Arthur's voice is a little hoarse, his chest still heaving. "You could probably do with some yourself."

Merlin glares. He feels cold without Arthur's body atop his.

"Well, go on then, what do you want to talk about?" He hears his own voice, and even to him it sounds peevish. Arthur just looks at him for a moment, with reddened lips and soft eyes.

"Don't be like that."

"Like what?"

"Don't be hard. It doesn't suit you."

Arthur touches the corner of Merlin's mouth distractedly, and takes a deep breath before saying, "I didn't say anything to send Freya away. I wouldn't do that."

Merlin sags, feeling the fight abruptly leave him. Of course he knows that. There is too much honour in Arthur for him to be swayed by jealousy

"I know," he says. "I know you didn't. It was her choice."

"Good," says Arthur. "I didn't want you to think that I sent her away. Not even because of..." He gestures vaguely at Merlin and the rumpled bed.

There is a pause. Merlin's insides are fizzing.

"She can come back," says Arthur. "Any time. She will always be welcome in Camelot."

"Really?"

"Of course." Arthur frowns. "Why would you doubt it?"

"Well, because..." Merlin hesitates. "Because of me."

Arthur quirks an eyebrow. "Because of you?"

"Because I... I ran away. I took your horses. I stole Morgana's gown. I didn't tell anyone where I was going and I helped Freya escape and - " He breaks off. Arthur seems to have trouble controlling his mouth; the corners turn up, quivering.

"You stole Morgana's _gown_?"

"For Freya!" protests Merlin.

"So that's what you were doing, in the corridor with that dress."

Merlin smiles weakly. Arthur's face changes, turning serious, his eyes focused intently on Merlin.

"I know I don't own your affections, Merlin," says Arthur, very solemnly. "I won't ask for more than you're prepared to give. This - " he gestures at Merlin and the bed again, "this is, well..."

"Yes, what is this, exactly?" asks Merlin.

"This is whatever you want it to be," says Arthur. "It can be some comfort. A release. Or two bodies meeting, taking pleasure. Or it can be something more. If that's what you want."

"I think..." says Merlin, cautiously, feeling as if he's been given a choice of gifts and he has to choose the right one. "I think I'd like that. Something more. If that's all right with you."

Arthur smiles broadly, and it's like the sun coming out.

"Something more, then."

He pushes against Merlin's chest lightly, tumbling him backward into the rumpled bedclothes, and kisses him softly. Merlin lets his hands wander and Arthur does the same, until they're caressing and stroking one another, hard and soft in turn. Merlin drifts the back of his hand down Arthur's cheek; Arthur pushes his nose against Merlin's ear. Merlin bites playfully at the soft spot under Arthur's chin; Arthur holds Merlin's head hard between both hands, kissing fiercely and long. They fumble and struggle with clothes. Their legs entangle and they roll, one on top and then the other. Eventually Arthur muscles his way atop Merlin, his hand sliding between them. He watches Merlin intensely, touching him as if he wants to learn him through his fingertips. His muscles are hard against Merlin's clenching hands and thrusting hips, and his calloused hand is not gentle. Whenever Merlin's eyes flutter closed for more than a moment, Arthur nips at the nearest flesh with sharp teeth or increases the pressure of his thumb, making Merlin's eyes fly open with shock or pleasure. Arthur grins at him, blue eyes blazing, breathing hard.

Merlin comes first, stuttering out, "Arthur, Arthur, oh, oh," and groaning deeply; he catches the surprise and delight on Arthur's face before Arthur gasps and follows him, sweetness flowing into his face. They laugh and gasp and look at each other, exchanging foolish smiles.

Some time later, Arthur kicks at the tangled bedclothes and rolls out of bed to pull them up. When he gets back in he throws one arm heavy across Merlin's chest and presses his face into Merlin's neck. Merlin smiles and sighs a little. The intimacy of Arthur's breath against his neck reminds him of Freya.

"All right?" asks Arthur.

"Mmmmm."

"I still expect breakfast on time tomorrow."

"Mmm-hmmm."

There's a lengthy pause.

"Stop thinking," says Arthur, voice muffled in Merlin's hair. "I can't drop off next to a head full of thoughts."

"You're the one who keeps talking."

Arthur raises his head and bumps his nose against Merlin's cheek.

"We'll see her again, Merlin."

Merlin's heart swells. For Freya, for Arthur. He feels hopeful.

"You can't know that."

"I think it's true, though. I meant it when I told her she's welcome in Camelot. Always."

"Despite what I did?" asks Merlin.

"Because of what you did," says Arthur. "Because it's right. And because it's you."

 

***

Freya kneels, her skirt wadded beneath her, and hums as her hands sink into the earth. There's chill in the air, but the earth feels warm in her fingers. She unearths a parsnip and adds it to the growing pile in her basket. Just behind her, smoke trails from the chimneys of the small group of stone buildings where the men and women of the Old Religion share their lives.

It's peaceful; the air is rich with the smell of bread baking and the faint sounds of chickens scratching and chirring. The cloak she's been given, although coarse and undyed, is made of good thick wool and guards against the wind. She's slept through the night, the past several nights, and she's warm and well-fed. The bodily contentment makes her feel almost sleepy much of the time, like warm honey in her veins. Like sleeping by the fire with Merlin tucked against her, his knees fitted to the curve of hers. Her hand finds its way to the pocket, tucked beneath her skirt, where the bone dragon comb rests against her thigh.

"Freya. Little sister."

She looks up into two faces; a small man with dry, bleached-out hair, and the woman who had offered her help when she and Merlin first came to the Isle. Their faces are weatherbeaten but kind. It is as if she has known them forever.

She gathers her skirt, heedless of the mud on it, and rises to their level. The woman's eyes pierce her.

"You have been grievously wronged, and your life has broken you. Your burden was lifted, but its shadow is still on your shoulder. You came here to serve, and to learn, so that you in your turn may help, and atone for the wrongs you have done."

"Yes," says Freya, her voice a shade above mere breath.

"Do you truly think you have anything to atone for?"

"I killed people," says Freya.

"But not through your design."

"But I still killed them."

"And the pain of those deaths is on your soul," says the man.

"Yes," Freya says. It's almost easy to admit it, now that she knows she will kill no more.

"You are still very young, Freya," says the priestess. "You will heal. You can heal yourself, with help and time. But if you wish for a task and for service, there is one which will is fitted to you."

"Tell me what it is."

"There is a lake," says the man, his eyes hooded. "A very great treasure rests within it; a sword, forged with skill and love and tempered in a dragon's flame. It is safe, but it is vulnerable. It is meant for a great king, who will unite the land and bring magic back to full flower, and when he comes to claim it, there must be a ceremony, and a guardian to offer him the sword."

Freya catches her breath, knowing, suddenly _knowing_ , who the great king will be.

"Arthur," she breathes.

"Yes," says the woman. "Arthur Pendragon. The sword was made for him and him alone. It lies at the bottom of the Lake of Avalon, and it needs a watcher, to live by the lake and wait for the king to claim it. It will be lonely at times, and waiting, long waiting. But this is a task that must be done, and I think it is fitting that you do it. Will you take on this task?"

Freya stands straight, thinking of Merlin's smile, remembering Arthur putting aside his own feelings to offer her a home. Loneliness was her fate for so long. Waiting can be borne.

"I will do it," she says. "Oh, I will. Should we go there now?"

They are both smiling, and she feels herself smile back, her face softening, her body trembling with something like possibility. The warm honey has stopped oozing, but in its place there is something else; a breath of air, cool and invigorating, grasses green with life.

"Thank you, little sister. I truly believe that this will bring you peace," says the priestess. "We will go as soon as we can, but we must discuss your duties and teach you what you need to know. Come with us now."

Freya smiles and walks with them, towards the ruins that house the stone altar, through air that seems suddenly blooming with the scent and the warmth of roses.

 

END.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to everyone who offered feedback and encouragement for this one at the kinkmeme. This fic was written over a period that included two deaths in the family, some major changes at work and a month overseas, and I needed all the cheerleading I could get! And thank you also to the person who originally posted the prompt.
> 
> The title is from Sylvia Plath's poem 'Poppies in October': "A gift, a love gift/Utterly unasked for".


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